


Ships In The Night

by Leafeylocket



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Poor Charles, Smitten Erik, Smut, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 42,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leafeylocket/pseuds/Leafeylocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is an up-and-coming actor, Charles is a university professor. They meet, share a flirtatious dinner and then fail to act on their flirtation, each oblivious to how the other feels. </p>
<p>Over many months of long-distance longing, pining, jealousy and misunderstandings, they both begin to realise that their feelings may be reciprocated. Unfortunately life has a tendency to get in the way.</p>
<p>Will Charles and Erik only exist as ships that pass in the night?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Erik meets Charles.

**Author's Note:**

> So there's a healthy helping of Cherik clichés here, as well as (probably countless) rom-com influences. I am unrepentant.
> 
> I'm posting this chapter now because if I don't I'll continue to edit it indefinitely. This won't be perfect!
> 
> Second chapter will follow shortly. Third shouldn't take too long (I hope!)....
> 
> I've loved this fandom for a while now, so I'm glad to finally be able to give something back!

Erik leans close to the window of his second taxi of the evening and requests the driver take him to a restaurant. Erik has two prerequisites; that it's open and that it serves more than fried food and carbs.

He should have known that his favourite restaurant from his time on the shoot proper would be closed but he's cranky from the extra hours on set and clearly not thinking straight.

As he's closing the door on the rain he briefly considers asking the cabbie to take him back to his hotel; he could have a nice, relaxing wank and sleep until he has to leave for his flight tomorrow. It's at this moment, though, that his stomach chooses to disagree with him. The wank will have to wait.

The journey is mercifully short and Erik readily tells the driver to keep the change as he hands over the fare and his thanks for the recommendation before darting through the rain to the restaurant door.

His first impression is favourable as the hostess smiles widely and if she recognises Erik she's either too polite, too well-trained or both to say anything. There might be the briefest hint of recognition in her eyes but it goes no further. Erik breathes a sigh of relief. Quite aside from feeling vaguely horny and his general crankiness, he's too hungry to be the charming Hollywood star that Emma insists he should be while out in public. It's testament to the frequency of her lectures that Erik can practically hear the admonishment as he thinks it.

"A table for one, please."

The hostess smiles, inclining her head as she turns and Erik follows, leading him to a booth towards the rear of the restaurant in the only section that appears to still be open. Erik supposes it makes sense at 11pm to not have the entire place up and running. In fact, Erik observes as he ponders his menu, there only appears to be only one other patron, sitting at a table a reasonable distance from Erik's. A man not much different in age to Erik, by the looks of it.

"Good evening, my friend. Care to join me?"

Erik is startled into looking up from agonising over the steak or the fish, the hostess having departed, presumably to fill his drinks order.

He looks up and over to where the voice is now coming from; at the wavy brown hair, wide red-lipped smile and startling blue eyes of his fellow diner. The man has taken a few steps towards Erik, so as to not raise his voice. It allows Erik to take in the man's strong legs and compact torso, the delicious way his open shirt collar reveals the milky white skin of his chest.

Woah. The man is, well, stunning.

Erik reengages his brain in time to hear the man continue.

"I mean, if you'd like the company, that is? No offence taken if you'd rather not, though."

The man smiles again, slightly quirking an eyebrow, as if to reinforce the casual nochalance of his offer. Impossibly, it makes him look even more gorgeous. Erik's cock, denied its usual early-evening outlet, can't help but take an interest.

Erik is slightly stunned, if he's honest. Usually people are too star struck (for want of a better phrase) to approach him like a normal human being, or turn into crazy fans who simply holler and squeal at him. Erik is, by equal turns, bemused and horrified by those reactions. He's just a person, goddammit. No special powers, nothing extraordinary about him.

Hence all the wanking. It's ridiculous that people think actors get laid all the time. They simply can't meet anyone who can see past the fame.

It's the sheer simplicity of the question, the contrast that it strikes, that makes this man's invitation more startling than perhaps it should be. And it's his _face_ that makes it more appealing, too. Erik suspects the rest if the man, beneath the dark jeans, shirt and navy jumper, is equally appealing. More so.

Erik is not what you'd call a _people person_ (another of Emma's phrases) and the usual reaction of the general populous removes the need to be. Yet this man, _those eyes_ , eyes that have swept up through long lashes to glance at him a couple of times since the question was posed, cause Erik to respond without hesitation.

"Yes, thank you, that would be....great."

Erik lays down his menu, wills his cock into some sort of submission and departs his booth, walking round to wear the man is standing.

"Charles Xavier, very pleased to meet you," the man states, as he extends his hand for Erik to shake.

Erik does a double take, glancing up from where their hands are joined to meet the man's eyes again. He notes the smattering of freckles across the man's nose, a weakness of his. Ugh.

"Oh goodness. Really?! Oh, well, of course yes, yes you are.... You would know who you are..."

Charles Xavier. _Professor_ Charles Xavier, to be precise. Erik follows his work, tries to keep up with the latest developments in genetics, the subject that he knows the Professor teaches.

It had been Erik's first passion. His natural sciences teacher had done what he could to nurture Erik's aptitude, setting aside the limitations of the curriculum; lending journals, giving tutorials during lunch hours, suggesting exhibits at the local scientific institute, sending links via email to websites of potential interest. He'd encouraged Erik to think about university, attempted to motivate Erik beyond the ingrained defense mechanism of a foster child who _knows_ they have no chance of funding three years of study, quite aside from earning a place.

Professor Xavier is chuckling, blue eyes shining as he raises that same eyebrow, this time in a smirk.

"Shouldn't it be me who's star-struck?"

Erik has been staring. Like a guppy fish. How dignified. It's just that the man in front of him is _gorgeous_. And he's Professor Charles Xavier. He's having trouble processing that somehow the two go together. Professor Xavier, his intellectual idol, is not supposed to be this attractive. Or young. How did he not know that about the man whose work he followed so closely?

"Do you... know who I am?"

Charles appears to ponder this as they seat themselves on opposite sides of Charles' table, seemingly giving Erik's question genuine thought. Erik doesn't miss the appraising once-over he's given by the man before he takes his seat.

"Did I know your name prior to you introducing yourself? Yes. Do I know what you do for a living? Yes. Do I know who you are? No my friend, no I really do not."

Charles winks at him then, he actually _winks_.

Erik blinks, taken aback by both the sincerity of the answer and the fact that Charles Xavier _just winked at him_. He's used to new acquaintances' casual assumptions of intimacy. The way they act like they know Erik (all the more baffling because he steadfastly only talks about his projects in the interviews Emma insists he undertake). This response, however, is quite the opposite. It doesn't claim to know Erik or react to his public image. It's genuine and _flirtatious_. His cock jumps again.

Charles' response is unexpected. But it's welcome. And, oh good heavens, it's _dangerous_. Erik shouldn't feel this way about someone he's just met. _Verdammt_.

"Fame seems all too often to be considered interchangeable with celebrity nowadays. People can almost reasonably claim to know celebrities, splashing as they do their personal lives all over the Internet. I get the impression that while you may be famous, Mr Lehnsherr, you certainly aren't a celebrity."

He flashes Erik a kilowatt smile. Oh and if Erik didn't just melt slightly. What was this man doing to him?!

He's charming, without being smarmy, his Received Pronunciation accent and obvious intellect combining with his smile, the way he runs his tongue over his lips and those eyes to present a package that is almost too good to be true.

_Intelligent and flirtatious. Sexy._

_Dangerous...._

"Thank you, Professor Xavier. I'll take that compliment. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Erik flashes a confident smile at this; one worlds apart from the wide-mouthed grin he sports on red carpets. He hopes he's not betraying the roiling lust that's threatening to break through his trousers at any second. The way he thinks about an altogether different type of pleasure...

Erik sees Charles raise that eyebrow again, is that amusement or something else in his eyes? Maybe Erik's not being as subtle as he'd hoped....

Charles smiles now. Well, _beams_. His whole face lights up like Erik's just made his day.

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you. It's not every day I meet someone who knows my name!"

"Well, I, er..."

 _Study you_ sounds wrong on many levels. _Keep up with your work_ sounds both too casual and too pompous. _Read your articles **all the time** because you're so CLEVER_ would just sound insane... _Would like to crawl under the table and do obscene things to you_ is probably a little forward. And besides the point.

"I wanted to study Genetics. Back before. Before.... I admire your work, Professor Xavier"

Charles is either too polite or too insightful of Erik's inner wranglings to do anything other than increase the width of his smile. He glances down at Erik's torso, at where Erik knows his roll-neck is stretched just this side of too tight over his chest. Erik barely suppresses a smirk.

"Well that's something I now know about you. I promise I won't tell...And it's Charles, please, just Charles."

Both of Charles' eyebrows are raised this time. It looks cheeky.

Erik laughs. It's either that or sink to his knees and start on those obscene things...

"Yes, yes of course. Well Charles..."

Erik weighs the name on his tongue, considers how to pull himself together for long enough to have dinner with this man.

"I'm Erik. And I don't know about you but I'm ordering the sole..."

He smiles at Charles, beginning to relax. Yes, he can do this. Act like a grown up. Not drool all over the table...

They proceed to order. Charles asks him about his views on a recent article he's read and it turns out Erik's read it too.

Erik shares some of his thoughts on Charles' work, desperately trying to not come across as too ignorant. It takes quite a bit of concentration to not get distracted by that tantalising 'v' of skin at Charles' collar, exposed as it is but Erik manages it. He's amazed that he can string two coherent sentences together, to be honest.

Charles listens attentively, his eyes fixed on Erik. He firmly rebuffs Erik's self-chastisement, insisting that what he's saying has merit.

Erik feels energised, by the conversation, by the attention, the interest Charles shows in what he has to say. It's almost enough to make him forget that this man also interests him for other reasons. But not quite.

Charles moves on to speak about his love of theatre, a subject that at times in the past has made Erik uncomfortable. Charles makes him feel like his profession has merit, that it's not _simply something that anyone could do_.

(Erik still feels the sting of that comment, uttered by an ex-boyfriend when Erik broke off their mediocre relationship. It was upon his departure from Germany to take on his first role. _You'll come crawling back, you'll see. It's not like you're going to make it big..._ In all honesty, he was still striving to prove Sebastian wrong.)

Erik marvels at how easy conversing with Charles is. He doesn't think it's just the low buzz of arousal that has continued to thrill through his body that has made the night so good.

The conversation turns to the latest production of _Waiting For Godot_ that debuted in London only a fortnight before and Erik tentatively shares that he was in a performance as a 16 year old, playing The Boy in his Gymnasium's interpretation.

Erik continues to be charmed by Charles' enthusiasm and effusiveness. He's more than a little impressed with the man's knowledge of literature and the London stage and he finds himself more than a little pleased that he'll be returning to tread the boards in _Othello_ in a few months' time. He's also more than a little horny.

Charles is quite something. He makes Erik think, really think, intellectually stimulating in a way Erik hasn't experienced since his teens. All this in spite of the fact that Erik is coiled tighter than a spring, imagining taking Charles up to his hotel room, spreading him wide and sinking into him...

He imagines Charles' students must be enthralled during his lectures. And not just because of the arse he studies as Charles _saunters_ to the men's room as their coffees arrive.

Moreover, Charles makes Erik laugh. Deep belly-laughs borne of genuine amusement at anecdotes recounted and observations made by the man. He is utterly enchanting and Erik is enchanted.

The conversation eventually drifts towards its conclusion, having briefly touched on Erik's reasons for being in Oxford - more specifically _this restaurant_ \- at 11pm on a Sunday.

"A lot of the filming was at studios in London, but the director decided while editing that some of my lone scenes would be better set on location, hence my return. Because it's just me, they suggested intensive filming over two days. It's just as well, as that's all my schedule allowed... So here I am. To be honest, all I want to do is sleep for about two days straight but I'm due at the airport at 5pm so I guess I'll snatch what I can back at the hotel and try to sleep on the plane...."

How Erik resists the urge to say _All I want to do is take you back to my hotel room and ravish you_ is something that he will probably need to puzzle over at a later date.

"I'm headed over to London - to a conference - myself tomorrow," Charles states, briefly tilting his right wrist to glance at his watch.

"Or today, as it now is! Goodness, my friend, it's terribly late and I fear I have kept you from your sleep far too long to be polite."

Charles flashes Erik an apologetic smile before he gestures to the waitress who appears to have already printed their check, presumably out of a desire to accelerate her own departure.

Erik stares at the man, wondering where the flirtatiousness disappeared to. He seems anxious. Erik berates himself. He hasn't done a very good job of being subtle after all.

Charles glances at the total and pulls some bills from his wallet, depositing them on the small tray before rising to his feet and moving from the table, pulling his long woolen coat over his shirt and jumper and winding a sky blue scarf around his neck. Erik wistfully bids _goodbye_ to that enticing patch of skin and instead rakes his gaze back over Charles. Even with the coat he cuts a striking figure. Erik would quite happily peel it off the man again, preferably somewhere less public.

Before he can reengage his brain from its appraisal of Charles' really very attractive person, Charles is offering his hand again in an all-too-soon echo of their first interaction.

"It's been a genuine pleasure, my friend. And a stimulating one! I'm so pleased to have met you."

Erik takes Charles' hand, grasping it a little too tightly as he shakes it. He wracks his brain for something, anything to say to delay Charles' departure. He finds this man fascinating. He was attracted to his mind before and now he's seen the rest of him he's very definitely attracted to his body.

Charles flashes that smile again.

 _Shit._ Erik thinks. I could fall for this man.

It's just his luck that his brain seems to realise this, despite probably having migrated south some time ago, and won't engage with his mouth. He manages to stutter out,

"Yes, thank you, it was...lovely getting to know you..."

He winces. It's not even close to what he wants to say.

Charles flashes a lightning-bright smile, the broadest of the evening.

"Yes, my friend, it really was."

And with that, he turns to leave, through the door and out into the night.

It's only when Charles has disappeared from view, Erik's gaze following his hunched form across the restaurant's large front window as he fought through the driving rain, that Erik allows himself a moment or two to reflect on what's just happened.

Professor Xavier - Charles - was amazing. And stunning. They'd talked. They'd gotten on with one another. Their conversation had been easy. They'd both flirted - or so he thought - and it had been electrifying.

Erik hadn't experienced anything like it in a very long time. Hell, he didn't think he'd felt like this ever.

He realised with a jolt that he was half-hard. And half in love with Charles Xavier.

Shit.

Clearly Charles hadn't felt the same way. The man had no difficulty leaving the restaurant - and Erik. Had simply walked away.

Erik shakes his head, using the physical action to try to clear his infatuated brain. It doesn't help.

He readies himself to leave. Glancing at the check, he realises that Charles has left enough money to cover both their meals.

His stomach lurches. He feels an almost overwhelming surge of affection for the man who has already walked out of his life.

Shit. Double shit.

He adds to the generous tip that Charles has left, conscious of the late hour and makes his way to his hotel, trying to keep his thoughts from ones of Professor Charles Xavier


	2. In which Charles meets Erik. And turns down Scott.

A few years ago Charles would have skipped home after a night like this, but the blustery weather set an altogether more appropriate tone. Trust Charles to have one of the best fully-clothed evenings of his life with a man who was completely unattainable; who Charles had no hope of ever seeing again.

Erik Lehnsherr was a complete revelation. Charles certainly hadn't expected his evening to take the shape it had, even after he'd recognised the man.

The man who walked through the door not five minutes after Charles was definitely attractive. Long, lean legs encased in black trousers, a roll-neck jumper of deep charcoal peeking out from the top of a short jacket in the same shade. Charles may have made an attempt to tame his hair and checked his breath but no one else need know that.

Charles wasn't deluded enough to tell himself that he would have extended an invitation to just anyone, but there was something about the man - aside from his physical attributes - that made Charles think he could do with some company. Or maybe Charles just wanted an excuse to invite him over. It didn't really matter, he'd done it anyway.

He certainly _did_ , however, extend his invitation before he realised that the man in question was Erik Lehnsherr.

Charles isn't a big cinema-goer but he has seen one of the man's films, Raven having cajoled him into a late-night showing of _The Age of Enlightenment._ He hadn't expected to, but he'd actually enjoyed it, a tale of rival scientists set in the latter stages of the eighteenth century.

Raven had been interested in the film because of her sizeable crush on its lead actor, Henry McCoy. The rumours of an altogether different chemistry experiment with his costar, the up-and-coming Erik Lehnsherr, only adding to the attraction of the film as far as she was concerned. Charles imagined she'd spent the whole film formulating fan fiction plots... He, however, suspected his tolerance of the outlandish storyline had had more than a little to do with his eager anticipation of each reappearance on screen of Erik Lehnsherr

Still, Charles wasn't prone to judging books by their covers, assessments of attractiveness aside. He'd dated enough jerks to know that a chiselled jaw and cute arse did not a dream man make. He wished they did but hey, he didn't make the rules.

He'd resolved to treat the man just as he would any other. He met more than his fair share of talented people in his line of work and just because this man's talent brought with it a sizeable chunk of fame didn't mean that he should be treated differently. He supposed it helped that he hadn't nurtured his crush in the manner that Raven had, having all but forgotten about Erik Lehnsherr after they'd left the cinema.

It became clear to Charles that treating him no differently was to be a struggle because, up close, Erik Lehnsherr is the most _breathtakingly gorgeous man Charles has ever see_ n. The firm line of his jaw, the subtle red of his late-in-the-day scruff, the casual mussed-ness of his hair, the cool depths of his pool-blue eyes all struck Charles as a pretty perfect combination. He wouldn't be surprised if Erik Lehnsherr could simply look his partners into bed, the impact of his features was mind-bogglingly hot. The fact that the rest of his body matched up was almost criminal.

He hadn't been expecting to be recognised _himself_ , however, and it took a considerable amount of concentration to stop the accelerating beat of his heart from overspilling into his actions. Erik Lehnsherr knew the name of an Oxford Professor? He wasn't used to being recognised outside of academic circles and certainly not by _The World's Most Attractive Man_. It had been more than a little thrilling.

Charles sighed as he closed the door of his smart yellow-brick townhouse on the squawling wind and the night.

Erik had been a surprise wrapped in an enigma. Intelligent as well as gorgeous. His initial reticence had been clear and Charles had worked hard to navigate the delicate line that he could sense separated what Erik was and wasn't prepared to share. He'd worked hard but it had been worth it. Charles is sure that line shifted at least a couple of times over the course of the evening.

Every sentence that left Erik's lips had Charles wanting to ask more, to know more. It also had him wanting to know what that voice would sound like crying out Charles' name when he took his cock in his mouth, but then what else was new?

He knew he was prone to jumping the gun, jumping in with his heart as well as his cock, but Charles felt compelled by Erik Lehnsherr.

Charles had flirted a little. Well, maybe a lot. Looking up at Erik through his long eyelashes, flashing his most winsome smiles, the odd wink... Licking his lips was a natural gesture he couldn't seem to shake. He didn't think it hurt.

He certainly didn't expect anything to come out of it, but surely it was only polite to be oneself when in company? He knew he could be charming. It would have done the man a disservice if Charles had held back. And Charles thought very highly of the man.

It was the dawning of this realisation, towards the end of their meal, that prompted Charles to extricate himself as quickly but as subtly as possible. He had hoped his glance at his watch didn't appear as rude as he'd felt when doing it.

No offer to exchange email addresses was extended, no lingering goodbye undertaken, no opportunities for snatched goodbye kisses allowed... It was his usual tack, but one he felt would not be appropriate with a man he would never see again, a man who was way _out of his league_ , who was stunning and interesting, intelligent and charmingly shy at times.

A man who laughed at Charles' stories, listened to his theories and responded articulately, who blushed at his compliments, responded with thoughtful quips of his own.

A downright deliciously sexy man who had no business turning up in Oxford restaurants at 11 'o' clock on a Sunday evening and making Charles question how he had ever found anyone else on the planet even vaguely attractive.

On the whole, a man who seemed more interested in Charles - and interesting to Charles - than pretty much anyone he had ever dated.

Anyway. Enough of that.

Charles could hold his head high at not embarrassing himself in front of Erik Lehnsherr. He'd been so close to propositioning the man, the chance of a night - or even just an hour - of acquainting himself with what he was sure was the body of a Greek God under that roll-neck was almost enough to make him forget himself.

He was pretty sure Lehnsherr - _Erik_ \- had the most magnificent cock. He'd noticed the sizeable bulge in the man's trousers as he'd walked across the restaurant, confirming that anything Charles had glimpsed on screen was not a generous case of digital flattery. He would have really rather liked the opportunity to familiarise himself with its taste, its girth. But he knew that he must have been imagining what he thought was flirtation from Erik. There was no way he'd be interested in an at-best-just-above-average Oxford Professor. The man was just being polite.

He didn't think he could have gotten over the humiliation of being let down gently by Erik. And he knew he would have been gentle, the man had responded charmingly to Charles' cheekiness, there was no reason to think he'd be any different when deflecting an invitation to a night of wild debauchery.

Charles chose to ignore the beginnings of an ache deep in the pit of his stomach, one that seemed, if anything, stronger than the one in his trousers.

His intimate dinner with Erik Lehnsherr was an anecdote he'd tell his grandchildren. If he ever met anyone with whom to have the children to beget them in the first place.... He would treasure it, but nothing more. Erik was a nice man and Charles could be pleased to have met him.

He could now carry on with his life as though nothing was different, because it wasn't. Not really. He probably had some useful new wank material. But that was it.

He just crossed his fingers that this resolve was strong enough to get Erik Lehnsherr out of his head.

\--------

Charles spends the entire train journey into London hoping against hope that Erik Lehnsherr will have eschewed whatever car will be taking him directly to the airport to catch the commuter service. To be fair, he is in first class. It's not outside the realms of possibility, surely...

Nevertheless, Erik does not materialise and Charles spends the entire conference oscillating between irrational disappointment and frustrated annoyance at his inability to _think about anything other than Erik Lehnsherr._ He just thanks his stars he hadn't put forward a paper to present today.

The train journey back is no better, although Charles does manage to spend half an hour checking some emails. He considers it an achievement.

He spends the cab journey from the station to his home berating his wild rom-com-inspired musings before deciding that he could allow himself this day to bask in the afterglow of his evening with a delightful man before returning to normal and putting all thoughts of Erik Lehnsherr out of his mind tomorrow.

 

He's vaguely surprised when he walks into his office the next morning that everything is, well, _normal_. He doesn't know what he expected but he hadn't really been prepared for normal.

Fortunately he has an 8am lecture to deliver so he doesn't have the time to dwell on anything.

Fours hours, two lectures, three cups of tea and one croissant later he is approaching his office, when he is abruptly reminded of _just how normal_ the day is turning out to be.

Scott Summers is reclining in one of the pair of upholstered chairs that face Charles' desk, legs crossed, right ankle perched on his left knee, hands steepled together above his lap, elbows jutting out at angles over the arm rests. It irritates Charles that he acts like he owns the place.

"Scott" he grinds out in the most even tone he can muster.

"What can I do for you?" _Like Charles doesn't already know._

"Well good afternoon to you too, Professor Xavier." Scott seems to know how to wind Charles up the wrong way, his attempt at a sarcastic tone sounding pathetically juvenile.

Rounding his desk, Charles glares at Scott. He's losing his patience far more quickly than he normally does, even around The _Drama Department's Most Persistent Man._

"Scott, I've had a busy morning, I need to prepare some slides for a lab I'm leading this afternoon and I'm afraid I don't have time to chat." He enunciates the last word sharply, almost spitting the word out like somehow the concept offends him. Well, it does where Scott is concerned.

"Ok, ok, Charles." Scott has the nerve to look amused, holding both his palms up in a placating gesture.

"I was just wondering whether you were considering going to the inter-departmental dinner on Friday night?"

Oh for goodness sake! Charles thinks. _Does this man ever **stop**?!_

Charles exhales slowly as he rounds his desk, lifting his satchel over his head and laying it on his desk.

 _Calm. Breathe. You're better than petty retorts, Charles_.

"To be perfectly honest, Scott, I hadn't really thought about it. I've been very busy lately, keeping strange hours and I can think of better things to do at the beginning of my first free weekend in what seems like forever than spend the evening with people I see every day of the working week."

"So you're free for dinner with me then?"

Well if he hadn't walked straight into that one....

"I appreciate the offer, Scott, but I think I'll just want to go home and veg out with a pizza and a bottle of Scotch."

"Saturday night?"

The man just wouldn't take no for an answer...

Well he was going to _have to_ , Charles resolved.

"Can I get back to you on that, Scott?"

Charles flashes Scott what he knew was one of his sickly sweet smiles. The type he reserved for flattering those who didn't deserve it.

He flicked on the kettle he kept on the window sill behind his desk. He silently thanked his graduate assistant for refilling the water jug this morning, allowing him to keep his back to Scott.

"And now, if you'll excuse me Scott, those slides won't wait for ever..."

He hoped this was enough to dismiss Scott. He did have the lab in just over 45 minutes so he didn't feel as guilty as he may have done. He was flattered, really. He just didn't particularly like the man. Too....smarmy.

Scott made a scene out of extricating himself from the chair.

"Well, you know where I am, Charles."

_Unfortunately...._

Charles ensured his smile was fixed.

"Yes, thank you, Scott. Goodbye then."

He waited as the man left the room before crossing it and closing the door, turning and collapsing in his own chair.

Charles sighed. The contrast between the men in Charles' _actual life_ and the man in the dream that had been Sunday evening was at its height where Scott Summers was concerned.

Still. Charles was sure that there would be better men to date than Scott Summers. Men that were right for Charles. Men that weren't Erik Lehnsherr. Of course there must. There must be.


	3. In which Erik is bored. And in Canada.

Erik was bored. He didn't usually get bored on set but this particular film had two leads. Considering that the storyline was about a couple drifting apart, it stood to reason that the majority of their scenes were not together.

It didn't help that the shoot was long. Ridiculously long, really, for a film that had no car chases or large ensemble casts to contend with. It was more that they were in the back-end of beyond, on the west coast of Canada; the film was to be one of the best looking in terms of scenery for a long time, Erik suspected. They'd moved locations three times already, each stop seeming more impossibly picturesque than the last.

It wasn't the prospect of the scenery or the likely Oscar buzz (Emma's words) that had led Erik to signing on for Like Ships In The Night, but more the subject matter. Even post-Brokeback, Erik didn't feel that there were enough good gay role models in films, nor enough gay roles full stop, really. He didn't dignify the gay-best-friend-to-a-female-rom-com-lead with the epithet of 'role'.

Erik had been drawn to the human drama of the piece. How two people could get each other so wrong, hurt each other so much, as the characters he and his costar, James Howlett, were playing. Of the unhappiness and upheaval long-unrequited love could cause.

He'd wanted to explore the emotions; he'd never been in love so it was more of a challenge than perhaps it could have been. His film choices had worked so far for his career though, as he frequently reminded Emma. He didn't want her thinking this role was anything other than his own choice.

He didn't feel the drive for it at moment though. When he could throw himself into a scene, he did so wholeheartedly, but off screen something felt off. He now had three days before they needed him again. Sure he could leave, even if to no further than Vancouver - he had no desire to spend his free time travelling - but he figured he may as well be bored somewhere beautiful. Wide open skies and snow-capped mountains must help with ennui....

He'd felt lethargic for a large part of the shoot, if truth be told. On the occasions when Remy LeBeau, the media darling star of a long-running cable show who was playing the high school crush Erik's character had never quite gotten over, had popped into his trailer with an invitation to a local bar, Erik barely mustered even his usual mediocre effort to socialise. Remy didn't bother so much now and Erik couldn't say he missed it. However, the man hadn't shaken his habit of dropping into Erik's trailer at random intervals to run lines, talk about character motivation... Erik figured this at least couldn't hurt.

If he were honest with himself, Erik's mind had drifted on more than one occasion to Professor Xavier. To Charles. He felt ridiculous, having barely spent two hours in the man's company, but he suspected that the case of the doldrums he was suffering from owed a considerable amount to the disappointment of an opportunity missed.

He'd cursed himself more times than he cared to remember for not at least suggesting they exchange numbers, even email addresses would have been something. He could've suggested they correspond about Charles' work, Erik's roles. They'd found plenty of interests in common during their meal, it wouldn't have been hard to casually suggest they continue their conversation by another medium. Surely that's how people made friends?

Erik realised that his judgement in this respect was clouded by the sheer lust that he felt for Charles. Friends was the least he wanted to be. He'd tried to ignore it, the way his cock tingled when he thought of Charles' surreally red lips, tried to prevent his mind from wandering to thoughts of how they would feel against his own; how the tongue that frequently, subconsciously moistened those lips would feel teasing against his; how those lips and that tongue would feel on and around his cock...

Erik didn't think he'd masturbated this much as a 17-year old. He'd stopped telling himself it was due to boredom some time ago. He was a big enough man to not retreat into that much denial. He was attracted to Charles Xavier. A lot.

The problem was it wasn't just physical attraction that Erik felt. He'd known as much when Charles had left. But he'd hoped it was just a temporary thing, brought about by the intensity of their conversation, the intimacy of the restaurant, Erik's lack of interaction with human beings he could actually tolerate. That wasn't the case though, as it turned out.

Four weeks after their meal and Erik still daydreams about getting to know Charles. It's becoming something of a problem.

The only person who notices is, predictably enough, Emma. Never mind that she's probably the only person who knows him well enough to tell.

She'd visited the set earlier in the week, laden down with fresh scripts and excuses about needing a decision from Erik that she knew she'd have to elicit by deploying physical force. Erik knew it was just because she missed him. He'd already told her he was interested in the adaptation of The Song of Achilles; that the partial rewrite wasn't likely to change that, although he noticed that particular manuscript was on the top of the pile.

"Pull your head out of your arse, Lehnsherr and do something about it, whatever it is! Is it a man? It is, isn't it? A man?! Who is it? Do I know him? Shall I send him flowers? Wine? Condoms? What can I do to get you more engaged with life?! Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy being unhappy. You really should put yourself out there a bit more, go for it, you know?!"

He'd deflected as best he could, muttering about long shoots and awkward costars but he could tell that he hadn't fooled her. To his relief, she'd dropped it, too familiar with his customary taciturnity to futilely expend her energy.

Fortunately, Emma's pile also included the finalised Othello script for his next project. He was returning to the London stage nearly ten years after he'd made his debut in As You Like It. He loved Shakespeare, loved the timeless stories, the cadence of the language, the way the characters stood up to reinterpretation.

Erik can do anger. He's had enough experience of it in his life. He knows what the desire for revenge feels like. He doesn't think those aspects of his character should be too hard to pin down. Where he struggles is jealousy. He's never really had anything of his own that he cared about enough to get jealous over. Certainly not a lover.

He considers Googling it but doesn't think a website would really help with the complex spectrum of human emotion. Other actors' interpretations are out; he doesn't want his own performance to be derivative. He wishes he had someone to talk this over with. Not one of his costars, he can't say he's eager to spend even more time with either of them.

It's inevitable that his mind drifts straight back to Charles. And it suddenly strikes him that the man's email address may be publicly available; at least, his university one should be. Students would be asking him questions all the time! Why hadn't he thought of this before?

He demurs almost immediately, panicked by the prospect of taking a first step towards Charles. Would it seem too forward? Two hours, even over a meal, wasn't a lot to go on.

No sooner has Erik thought this that a voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Emma, reminds him that relationships, friendships, require a First Step. He thinks back to her earlier admonishment, to put himself out there. Surely this is the sort of thing she means?

After all, it'd only be a friendly email:

Hello Charles, remember me? The man you politely invited to share your table for dinner, once, four weeks ago...

Hmm. He'd have to work on that....

Erik spends the next three hours drafting and redrafting an email to Charles before he remembers that he hasn't even taken advantage of the (thankfully) fast wi-fi the hotel offers to seek out an email address for Charles.

He finds one rapidly, the simplicity of the search an affront to the amount of time it's taken him to think of the idea, along with a postal address, care of the Department of Biochemistry, all presented neatly beneath a crystal clear and, by the looks of it, relatively recent photograph of a smiling, bespectacled Professor Charles F. Xavier. The squarish, heavy-framed glasses suit him, Erik thinks with a now-familiar pang of attraction. If anything they enhance his eyes, their tone impossibly blue even in the small image.

Before he can dwell any longer on the pros and cons of contacting the man, he copies-and-pastes Charles' email address into the email window:

_Hello Charles_

_I hope you don't mind my contacting you like this, but I've been reading through my Othello script and was reminded of our discussion over dinner._

_Do you have any thoughts on the play? I'd appreciate your insight; a fresh pair of eyes from outside the theatrical world would help no end!_

_Trusting this finds you well._

_Yours,_

_Erik_

He clicks send, hoping his signature is not too familiar; that he's made a passable attempt at a casual, friendly email from one acquaintance to another; nothing than betrays his feelings. If anything he thinks it sounds boring. Good. Ish.

Now all he can do is wait. For what, he's not quite sure.

He decides against going back to _Othello_. Instead, he leaves the hotel, embarking on one of the aimless walks that will rapidly become something of a speciality of his.


	4. In which Charles has a Date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter were originally one but have been split while I continue to agonise over the last bits of it!
> 
> That may be up later today.
> 
> More to come this week.

Charles had felt particularly browbeaten after a thorough dressing-down from Raven over FaceTime. Whilst he hadn't gone into the detail of his crush, he had shared that he'd dined with Erik Lehnsherr. He'd never been able to keep secrets from her.

She'd raised her eyebrows, smirked at Irene and glared at Charles before teasing:

"Please don't tell me you've turned into a besotted shadow of your former self, dreaming of shagging this man into next week at every opportunity?! You liked him in that film, too, didn't you?!"

When he'd done his best, _Who, Me?!_ face at her she'd continued:

"I _know_ you Charles, irrespective of who it is, there are times when you see a cute guy and pursue him until you either get what you want or he tells you where to go. Lucky for you, most of the time it's the former. But that's not possible this time, so you mustn't go there!!"

He hadn't dignified her statement with a response. Not unless you counted ending the chat with an abrupt unfolding of the iPad cover.

He'd moved on to other things.

After three and a half weeks of intense campaigning by Scott, Charles had accepted the man's invitation to a 'casual' (his words) dinner at a new American Diner-style restaurant in the city centre.

Raven had railed against it via email, via text and during an unexpected visit one rainy Saturday afternoon, she and Irene extending their layover in London for a couple of nights. Moira had disinterestedly suggested that he had nothing to lose. Darwin shrugged, before huffing at Charles something about it being his funeral.

It may have seemed extreme, but Charles took great pleasure in spiting Raven. And at least there wouldn't be candles.

To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure he had any more optimism than his sister or his friends, but it'd been a while since he'd been on a date (he honestly wasn't calling it his _Pre-Lehnsherr Era_ ) and he didn't have the energy outside of teaching and his research to go out in search of anyone more appealing.

So with their far-from-glowing endorsements of his date still ringing in his ears, Charles finds himself standing in front of his mirror, frowning at his reflection. He doesn't want to look too appealing, or like he's made too much effort. He equally doesn't want to look like he hasn't tried, because then he'd have to face up to the fact that he was deliberately attempting to sabotage a date. He really wouldn't want to have to explain that to himself.

He settles for a dark blue Henley and some of his everyday jeans - not too tight, but also not so obviously the pairs he wears to mooch around the house. He guesses his hair - in much its usual, dishevelled state - is passable against all his criteria and, grabbing a short brown jacket, he pockets his keys, wallet and phone and leaves the house.

He'd insisted on meeting Scott there, despite the man offering to pick him up. He suspected it was a thinly veiled ruse to get Charles' arms wrapped around him from the back of his motorcycle. _No thank you..._ He tried desperately to remember why he'd thought this date was a good idea and came up with nothing.

The walk was short and took Charles past the restaurant in which he'd met Erik. He allows himself the shortest of fond sighs and a slightly longer remembrance of Erik's long fingers as they clasped his in greeting. His mind did definitely not wander to thoughts of anything else _long_.

He arrives at the restaurant about five minutes late and spots Scott, straight-backed and uptight in a seat facing away from the window. Oh good, at least Charles could stare at passers-by.

At this point, Charles stops trying to kid himself. He just wants to get this over with. Give Scott his date, help him realise that Charles is not the man for him, then they both move on, the end.

He realises it won't be hard to act in such a way as to put Scott off and then winces when he considers how Scott brings out the worst in him.

_He's certainly no Erik Lehnsherr either._

Charles had felt comfortable with him. At ease.

He enters the restaurant and notes, to his horror, that it's the kind of establishment that feels the best way to evoke a feel of the U.S. is to screen rolling American entertainment and sports news on large flat screens dotted about the walls.

Charles realises Scott has seen him when he hears the man clearing his throat particularly loudly and he makes his way to the table. He tries not to drag his feet.

\---

What was already an excruciating evening becomes something else entirely just after Charles and Scott have ordered.

"Ha, would you look at that?! My brother's the Lighting Supervisor on that movie. They're over in Canada at the minute. Seems there's at least something interesting going on on the set, then!"

Charles considers not humouring Scott but finds himself turning around to look at the screen. If nothing else, whatever inane celebrity gossip is currently being splashed across the screen will fill conversation for the next five minutes.

He's not expecting, instead, to be rendered speechless.

 _Lehnsherr and LeBeau: A European Romance in Canada?!_ reads the bold red headline. Long lens, but clearly recognisable images of LeBeau being welcomed by Erik - _Lehnsherr_ , Charles corrects himself - into his trailer are only replaced by grainy video of the two of them leaving a bar. He notices that they don't look particularly happy, but why would they when there are cameras following their every move?

Charles' gut clenches uncomfortably and he's suddenly even less hungry than he was when he first glanced the somewhat clichéd menu ( _Tex-Mex burger? Really...?)_ It's clearly recognisable as the viscious sting of jealousy and Charles vigorously attempts to suppress it.

_You met the man, once Charles. And for two hours._

Despite his internal wranglings, Charles can't help but launch into a staunch anti-paparazzi, tirade.

"They're private individuals, for heaven's sake Scott! What they choose to do in their private lives is none of our business! Those images have clearly been taken, without permission, by paparazzi; surely you don't endorse such things?"

He inwardly congratulates himself on what he is sure is an even tone and convincingly conventional argument.

"I don't know. There's something to be said for these insights into how the other half lives. They're obviously asking for it; any publicity is good publicity and all that. The tabloids will undoubtedly bring this up when the film premieres and the box office will go through the roof. Anyone in film is playing the game, Charles. It's a cynical business and they're all playing it. Alex sees this stuff all the time."

Well if ever anyone needed proof that this is NOT the man for Charles, let them look no further. He barely manages to restrain the seering anger that's threatening to bubble up. He's so not himself it's almost scary.

Never has Scott sounded more like a pretentious wannabe. Just beneath his facade of casual - or not so casual, it would seem - indifference is a hostility towards those in more exalted acting circles. Such petty jealousy is not an attractive quality. As if the list of Scott's is not already short enough...

He'd heard the old adage countless times, albeit less frequently aimed at him (thanks to his research) but had never set any stock in it, or those who uttered it. Yet now he could clearly see why some less charitable students of Scott's had assigned him the tagline _Those who can't, teach_ on RateMyProf.com. The man really needed to get over his failure to make it big during his three-year-long sojourn in LA.

His frustration at his dinner partner proved a brief distraction from the knowledge that Erik was far away, filming in beautiful locations, surrounded by talented, attractive men. Men who weren't Charles. Men who mixed in what were surely similar circles to Erik, who understood his life in the way only someone with a similar experience could. Men who would naturally be what Erik wanted.

This was all obvious. The way things were. Irrespective of the veracity or otherwise of the entertainment 'news' and his involuntary despondency, Charles was composed enough to recognise the complete lack of surprise he should feel at this. People had relationships. Attractive people met other, like-minded people and had relationships.

Erik Lehnsherr was doing nothing different to Charles at this very moment.

_Although Erik Lehnsherr may actually like his companion... And won't be trying to get over you, Charles..._

Charles barely concealed a sigh, finally accepting what he'd been in denial about for weeks. He'd started falling for Erik Lehnsherr the moment he'd stammered out his recognition of Charles himself.


	5. In which Charles receives an email.

Charles' heart was even less in the date than before and it was testament to Scott's determination that he soldiered on anyway, trying to coax conversation from Charles. To his credit, he had quickly discarded the topic still periodically popping up on screen, attempting to draw Charles on the latest plans for student accommodation. Unsurprisingly, Charles had no view one way or another.

Charles drew the line at dessert. No amount of variations on the Coke Float could induce him to spend any longer with Scott and no amount of self-rebuke could stop his eyes from intermittently darting to the screen. Ritual self-torture was quick becoming a speciality, it seemed.

Excusing himself on the grounds of tiredness (he congratulated himself on proving the truth of that statement by not dreaming up a more convincing lie), Charles left more than enough money to cover his share of the bill.

 

It was with his uncomfortable (illogical!) jealousy still nagging at him that Charles sagged into his armchair twenty minutes later. It was still too early for bed, just barely past 10:30pm, so he hauled out his laptop from his briefcase, resolving to clear his inbox in preparation for Monday morning.

He waited for the program to refresh, new bold-typed email subjects filtering into the window. He glanced through them: recruitment for the inter-departmental sports challenges (his running days are behind him now, he thinks), the location for the next bi-weekly intra-departmental quiz, an invitation to the rowing club's first meet next weekend and what looks like a couple of questions arising from his most recent lecture, one from an unfamiliar name, 'E.M.Le'.

Charles quickly checked his spam filter, ensuring it was working by glancing at the time its most recent victim was sent, an invitation to 'Charles X. Avier' to 'Live your life to the full' . After this new one. Spam filter in full working order.

He may have actually emitted a - very small, thank you, Raven - squeal when the new window popped up, revealing the 'hnsherr' that completed the name of the sender.

Charles was thankful for the privacy of his own front room when he found himself - obviously - gaping at his screen, his heart hammering in his ears as it threatened to beat out of his chest.

Had he emailed to demand he be allowed to repay Charles for the meal? Was he insulted? Did Charles inadvertently leave with something of Erik's? He didn't think so, but he'd been floating so high at the time, he supposed it was possible...

Taking a deep breath, Charles skimmed the email:

I hope you don't mind; _Othello_ ; insight; Erik

He then read it in full, twice, three times for good measure before leaning back, stunned, and tried to collect his thoughts.

Erik Lehnsherr had emailed him (must've found the address online... Charles gulped a little, thinking of the speccy photo the department used of him for the web page), was asking him for insight for his next role.

Charles struggled to process it all, all manner of thoughts and questions immediately began circling his brain:

_Why me? Surely he has costars, friends to run this stuff by? He thought of me?! Is he still on set in Canada? What of this Remy LeBeau? What do I know about preparation for a play? Is this some kind of joke? Had Charles really been so laughable - or so obvious - that he was now the brunt of a cruel joke? Has someone set him up for a joke; is the email account a fake? If so, how did they know he'd met Erik Lehnsherr?!_

Charles got up and poured himself a glass of chilled water from the jug in the fridge, downed it and then refilled his glass.

Trying to consider the email logically doesn't come easily through the rapid beating of his heart. And it's not like Charles can blame the alcohol. He'd had one bottle of beer at dinner - and it had been a bottle, no glass supplied.

Returning to the sofa, he takes some deep breaths and reads it again. The whole email is very brief and the subject matter tests the bounds of credibility for a Hollywood actor.

As if he'd seek insight into a new role from someone he'd met for two hours....?! It's brief enough to suggest that whoever wrote it didn't trust themselves to stay in character for long enough.

He sighs as realisation dawns on him. It was probably Raven. Of course it was Raven. It was her sense of humour; probably trying to get her own back for Charles ignoring her Scott-related advice.

It would be so typical of her to reinforce her lecture by setting Charles up in just such a way that would expose - and belittle - his crush.

_He couldn't have a crush, couldn't date Scott.... Charles couldn't win!!_

Trust Raven to have her love life all wrapped up. She and Irene were perfect for one another. And it was the one thing Raven was decidedly not smug about. She knew how lucky she was to have found Irene.

She did, however, take great pleasure in taunting Charles. She had form. Charles can recall vividly the Valentine's Day he'd received a card from his crush. Or so he'd thought. He'd gone so far as to thank the boy for the card, inviting him for coffee at the weekend, only to be resolutely blanked before being laughed out of the classroom.

Raven had found him, sobbing, in his closet at 9pm that evening. He hadn't spoken to her for a week.

He quickly types:

_Well done, Raven!_

_It's a shame I didn't see your email earlier; I could've asked my date about character motivation had I but known!_

_Please don't prank the work email address._

_Charles_

He closed the lid to his laptop and took himself off to run a hot bath.


	6. In which Erik receives an email. Eventually.

Erik's mood had not improved over the days following his email to Charles. If it was possible he was even more morose than usual. And sullen. And irritable, if truth be told. No surprises there, then.

A last minute change of plan - whim, more like it - from th director had Erik and Remy transferred in The World's Smallest Aircraft to the _back-end-of-fucking-beyond_ for three days to shoot newly written scenes that showed the 'increasing depth' of their characters' 'reconnection'.

Erik had no patience for lovey-doviness right now, thank you very much.

It wasn't that he hated being out in the wilds of Canada - he really quite enjoyed the great outdoors, in spite of the numerous 'character' and 'team-building' summer camps he and dozens of other scared, angry or lonely foster kids had been invited (forced) to attend during their teenage years in the forests of Bavaria. It was more that the accommodation - comfortable as it was - DID NOT HAVE A WI-FI CONNECTION.

Erik had lost count of the number of times he'd cursed his luck since he'd discovered there was little-to-no phone connectivity when on the Tarmac of the runway as he'd alighted the death trap of a light aircraft they'd travelled in.

His patience with his current situation was pretty much non-existent so putting his heart and soul into scenes with Remy was not high on his agenda.

All he wanted was the ability to check his email, dammit. And not because he was eagerly awaiting a script from Emma, although that's what he'd told Remy the one time he'd got up the courage to ask. If Remy had looked skeptical, the glower Erik gave him was enough to silence any retorts he considered. Erik knew he had something of a reputation for on-set aloofness and satisfied himself that all this latest outburst would do was reinforce that distinction.

As he finishes up on their last full day, he scowls at the sole wardrobe assistant who'd travelled with them before stalking his way to the taxi that's arrived to return him to his B&B. She doesn't quite yelp as she shuffles out of his path but it's a near-run thing. Erik can be very intimidating when he wants to be.

And, boy, does he want to be.

Once he's safely ensconced in the worn leather seats of the Mercedes, he takes a few very deep breaths before leaning his head back and attempting to subdue his impatience. This time tomorrow he'll be on the ridiculously small aeroplane back to somewhere with a decent internet connection.

He'll just have the possibility of a reply - or lack thereof - to worry about then. He wonders if that might actually be worse.

\----

The plane is delayed. Of course it is. It should only be a 70-minute flight but a storm somewhere along the flight path needs to clear before the pilot's prepared to consider the journey. If he weren't so concerned with his safety, Erik might have lost his patience by now. Well, publicly.

As it is, he sits on a moulded plastic seat in the small provincial airport terminal, absentmindedly twisting his phone in his hands. He's bent forward from the waist, his elbows at angles to his body, his head and neck bowed, eyes glazed over as his thoughts torment him.

Will Charles have responded? Had his email seemed too cold, distant? Too familiar?

_How could it be both, Erik?!_

He briefly wishes he knew more about making friends. Then considers that would involve having friends and dismisses the thought as a theoretical impossibility. He's made it this far without any. He didn't need anyone. Well, he was beginning to see how that might be proven a lie.

\----

The plane landed two hours after it was scheduled to. 10pm. Erik's too wired to be tired. Airport coffee may lack in many things, but caffeine isn't one of them.

Erik switched Airline Mode off his phone as he jumped into the back of the waiting car sent by the production company to whisk him back to his hotel.

He waits anxiously as his inbox refreshes, messages from Emma trickling in like a dripping tap, frustratingly slow. Then he sees it. Sent barely three hours after his original mail. Erik grimaces. Now he'll look rude for not replying sooner.

Erik briefly hesitates before tapping to open the message. He chides himself for even that. _He is not a 12 year old girl with a crush_. He can deal with the contents of an email!

The message is short, barely takes five seconds to read and yet Erik struggles to process it.

Charles has replied to 'Raven', who he appears to know well if his succinctly scolding tone is anything to go by.

Erik fails to stifle a brief chuckle, surprised by the relief he suddenly feels that he hasn't offended Charles before his brain offers an altogether more unsettling sentiment.

Charles mentions a date. Has Charles been on a date? Jealousy wrenches his gut, vicious for all that he barely knows Charles.

_Erik, you have no right._

You barely know the man. It doesn't prevent his eyes searching the remainder of the email, seeking something that might suggest Charles is replying in kind; a jest for a prank. There is nothing that Erik can twist to fit this scenario. He tries, as best he can, to rise above the unjustified covetousness. He doesn't know that there is no hope. All is not lost. Not yet, at least.

Furthermore, Charles doesn't - can't? - believe that Erik has emailed him. Charles would more easily believe that he was the victim of a prank than that Erik would want to contact him. No wonder the man's been on a date. He's obviously planning on forgetting all about Erik.

Out of nowhere, something else occurs to him. Whoever Raven is, she knows about their dinner. How else would she know (in Charles' mind, anyway) to pose as Erik?

Small butterflies start fluttering in Erik's stomach, warring with the green-eyed monster in a battle for Erik's attention. Charles, it seems, has shared something about Erik with Raven. And he believes Raven is playing a joke, posing as Erik. What does that mean? Why pose as him? What would Charles believe she wanted to achieve?

Erik's aloofness had been his coping mechanism during his time both in foster care and children's homes. He'd avoided most of their teasing after the other kids learned he wouldn't rise to the bait. No crying or screaming or acting out equals no fun for children venting their hostility and frustration at their situation as best they knew how. He did know, however, that it normally involved using someone's most precious possessions or, worse, their hopes and fears against them in some way. Children could be so cruel.

Was Raven following that line of thinking? What was Erik's role in Charles' thoughts? And, still, nagging away at him. Who was the date? Who was Erik's competition?

Something about Charles made him willing to fight, if that's what it took.

\----

Erik spends a long time considering the email. Disproportionately so, considering its brevity.

It's not what he had expected at all, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing. He'd imagined far more devastating responses. He could work with this.

Erik switches to the camera on his phone, snaps a selfie (ugh, how he hates that word) and pastes it into a response to Charles. Then he stops himself. There are so many photos of him online, it would be easy for 'Raven' to have used one of them.

He scans his room, looking for something to verify his presence in Canada. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence for her to be here too....  

He lands on today's copy of The Vancouver Post, grabs a biro from the pot on the dresser and scrawls _Hello Charles!_ above the headline. Holding it beneath his chin as he arranges his features into a small smile, snapping and pasting into the email once more.

He types his reply, more assured now, buoyed up by thoughts that he is at least something to Charles. Charles had spoken to someone else about him.

_Hello Charles,_

_Not Raven, I'm afraid. I trust the photo is sufficient to satisfy your scientist's enquiring mind? I enjoyed our meal and your company._

_I hope you don't mind, but I found your email address on your faculty web page? The glasses suit you._

_I'm genuinely interested in your thoughts about Othello. I start rehearsals shortly and would value your opinion._

_I trust this finds you well._

_Erik_

He hoped nothing else happened to his connectivity by the time he (hopefully!) received Charles' response.


	7. In which Charles receives another email.

Charles had spent much of the weekend following his curtailed date with Scott - and Raven's prank - dwelling on her email.

Much as he hated to admit it, she'd hit a nerve. He couldn't stay hung up on Erik - or a two-hour glimpse of him - to the exclusion of men who were actually real and actually available.

This was why he found himself, at 8pm on Sunday evening, making a list of Scott's pros and cons. He was considering giving the man another chance - if he asked. Charles hadn't given him any opportunity on Friday night

He pushed any thoughts that he was back-pedalling to the back of his mind. Scott was here. Scott liked Charles. Scott was _real_.

 

_Pros_

_Scott is real_

_Scott is here. In Oxford. As permanently as anyone ever is._

_Scott likes Charles_

_Cons_

_Scott is egotistical_

_Scott is arrogant_

_Scott has a chip on his shoulder_

_Scott is opinionated_

_Scott doesn't appear to be interested in Charles' work_

_Scott did not compliment my outfit (never mind that Charles hadn't made an effort! That wasn't the point!!!!)_

_Scott does not (at present) appear to be able to make Charles laugh_

_Scott doesn't have crystal clear, grey-green-blue eyes that crinkle at the edges when he smiles Scott doesn't have scruff and a messed-up bedhead_

_Scott does not have thin-but-oh-so-inviting lips, begging to be kissed to swollenness._

_Scott is Not Erik Lehnsherr_

 

He debates scrubbing out the last four but leaves them in there simply to spite Raven. And because they're true.

It's not looking good for Scott.

At this point he's not in the mood for reliving his date in the search for Scott's redeeming qualities so he decides to have an early night. Alone in his bed. Well, does his hand count?

\----

Monday is hectic. Charles delivers his two scheduled lectures and is inundated during his adjusted office hours in the morning and barely has time to grab a panini and mocha over lunch before supervising his lab throughout the afternoon. He loves his job but he's really looking forward to just focussing on lectures over the summer. This multi-tasking can sometimes get confusing. One up-side to his busy-ness is that it doesn't leave any time for Scott to pin him down: Charles doesn't see the man all day.

As he wanders back to his office in the early evening sunlight he considers leaving his emails until Tuesday. It's a gorgeous day and he would enjoy a walk along the river. But his conscience pricks at him, reminding him of the possibility of students in need of guidance tearing their hair out overnight at his lack of response. He'd never get them done at home if he went for a walk. He did promise his students if they emailed him before 4pm they would receive a response and he was loathe to break that promise, even if it was more than his colleagues offered.

Sighing, he detours via the coffee shop, grabbing a Mocha Frappucino in an attempt to satisfy his craving for Spring.

\----

Waiting for his inbox to finish loading, he'd not expected to see another email from Raven who, it would seem, has continued her prank. He would have thought being out adventuring through the Thai jungles would leave her without a reliable internet connection. Not so, it would seem...

He ploughs through five emails from students with relatively simple queries ( _small mercies..._ ) before turning his attention to what Raven - or _E.M. Lehnsherr_ as she continues to masquerade - has to say for herself.

He opens the email and is confronted with a smiling picture of Erik Lehnsherr. It's really rather cute. Charles hadn't seen it before on his Google Image Searches of Erik's name. Which almost certainly did not occur at some point every couple of days...

_Googling images and everything now Raven, really, that's commitment..._

Charles didn't need reminding of how gorgeous that smile was. His eyes were crinkled at the edges too...

He definitely did not swoon.

Charles very nearly deletes the email, photo and all, remembering his men-related New Leaf, before something in the photo catches his eye. His name, in fact.

_Strange...._

He scrolls down, expecting to see evidence of Raven's newly-acquired Photoshop skills but instead is greeted by a message.

From Erik Lehnsherr. _The_ Erik Lehnsherr. Holding a copy of _The Vancouver Post._

Charles _knows_ Raven is not in Canada. The copy of the newspaper in the photo, Friday's edition, also bears what appears to be a handwritten note of his name. _From Erik Lehnsherr_.

Charles inhales deeply, holding the breath before exhaling equally deeply. He repeats the action. And again. He's ridiculously close to hyperventilating like a fan in the crush at their idol's concert. Except he's sitting in his desk chair. In his office. At one of the world's oldest, most prestigious universities. At the age of 27.

His eyes flash to the text of the email, lingering on the teasing tone of the first sentence and blushing at Erik's confirmation that he'd seen ( _and liked!_ ) Charles' faculty photograph.

He blanches when he realises he accused Erik Lehnsherr of pranking him and regains his colour a little when he remembers that this second email seems to prove Erik has taken it in good humour.

_Breathe..._

He pales again when he remembers he referred to his date with Scott in his response. Then realises that the man is not interested in Charles like that. He's asked Charles for his opinion on Othello, for goodness' sake, not for his hand in marriage!!

_In, hold, and out. Breathe, Charles!_

The teensy tiny part of his brain that was currently capable of pretty-much-sane, vaguely rational thought reminded him that _Erik had emailed him. Twice_. He hadn't been deterred by Charles' previous idiocy.

Erik Lehnsherr, after meeting Charles for two hours, has sought out his email address and contacted him. To ask his advice. To make conversation.

If Charles had had to speak at this point in time, he's really not sure he could have. Having mastered breathing, speaking seemed to have gone out the window...

Time slowly passes and his brain slowly kicks back into something resembling coherence, allowing Charles to try to process the situation.

Erik Lehnsherr has emailed him.

Twice.

He found Charles' email address online.

He'd like Charles' views on Othello.

He hopes Charles is well.

He likes his glasses.

He would probably quite like a response.

That doesn't accuse him of being Charles' little sister on a prank.

Charles isn't sure that he can do that right now.

This is one work email he will answer from home tonight. He slams his laptop shut, haphazardly grabbing his belongings before shoving them into his satchel which he slings over his head, jacket yanked off the back of his door as an afterthought. He'll think en route.

\----

Charles feels somewhat recovered into his grown-up self by the time he arrives home. He even takes the time to boil some pasta, stirring in a sauce and managing to not burn any of it. He's so proud of himself, particularly given the shock he's received, that he adds a congratulatory additional sprinkling of grated cheddar to his bowl before moving to sit at the dining table, his laptop already opened in front of him.

He's not sure he can structure an email that will subtly ask all the questions that he'd quite like the answers to, or that he can explain why he thought Erik was Raven and all that that implies about the man - and Charles' feelings towards said man - who _actually_ sent the email. So he'll steadfastly ignore any and all implications. It's not like Erik has asked about _that_.

_Hello Erik!_

_As I'm sure you have probably gathered, I hadn't been expecting to hear from you. It is a pleasant surprise..._

_I have to admit, I am flattered that you thought of me in relation to Othello - I did, however, enjoy our brief conversation about the theatre..._

Charles continues for a paragraph, sharing his thoughts of the rage-fuelled jealousy of the eponymous character and the machinations of the manipulative and duplicitous Iago. His grief for Desdemona.

He hopes its not too school-boy-standard for Erik, but Charles has no desire to pretend to the man. He's seen too many rom-coms to know how those scenarios play out.

Be yourself. It's the only way.

Not that anything will come of this anyway. Charles' overwhelmed feelings were surely not reciprocated by Erik Lehnsherr.

Charles is sure the man is simply being polite.

He recalls his own eagerness to leave the restaurant, intent on nipping in the bud any thoughts of more time with Erik....

He's sure that Erik simply wanted to extend a less curtailed goodbye. That the next email - if, indeed, there is even to be another - will simply thank him for his thoughts, for dinner, and wish him well in his life.

His life. The one that _then_ won't have Erik Lehnsherr in it.

_I'm sure your colleagues will have more enlightened, more useful thoughts than mine, my friend. But thank you for thinking of me!_

_I'll be sure to look out for it._

He thinks of the news story on in the restaurant as he types the last paragraph. Whilst he doesn't want to give any credence to stories in the popular press, he can't help wondering whether Remy LeBeau has an opinion on _Othello_ to offer Erik too...

Before he can overthink it too much, Charles signs off the email and hits Send.

He tries not to anticipate a reply.


	8. In which Erik finishes filming. And receives an email.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you to those of you who have left your lovely comments. 
> 
> They've really buoyed me, particularly as this is my first fic. Knowing that there are people enjoying it has made writing this even more of a joy!
> 
> I've just spent some time fleshing out the rest of the story in my notes - a nice long walk always leads to inspiration and, whilst I had the main outline in place, I've now fleshed it out... I'm excited by where this is going! I'll try not to take too long getting there!
> 
> I didn't post last weekend but I'll try to get at least a chapter up this time....
> 
> I hope you enjoy this instalment!
> 
> Thanks again to those of you who have commented... It's lovely to hear what you think!

Erik awoke on Sunday morning, not to the sound of an alarm but naturally for once. His last day on set afforded him his sole late call of the shoot - the dizzy heights of 10am no less. He laid in the middle of the king size bed, idly deliberating actually doing something with his morning erection now that he had time.

As it usually did these days, his cock only seemed interested in fantasies involving Charles Xavier's arse. And mouth. And cock. He had spent several happy moments imagining how he could go about worshipping every aspect of the body disguised by Charles' shirts and sweaters. That the _insane_ glimpse of skin at Charles' clavicle had hinted at.

It was absurd, then - laughable really - that Erik found his thoughts of licking at Charles' balls, suckling up his cock before swallowing it down greedily, two fingers teasing his prostate, enough to elicit what he imagined would be the most insanely hot moans from Charles, interrupted by the remembered cadence of Charles' laughter over something Erik had said, of his eyes gleaming when he'd mooted a different perspective to Erik's. Of course, it didn't take long to work those things into the fantasy, beautiful as they were, but if he hadn't already realised how far gone he was for this man - for Charles - then he would no longer have any doubt.

He came hard, bucking into his hand as his back arched off the bed, before sinking back down. A release; a relief of the tension built up over the last few days. He was sated but not satisfied.

_Would he ever be again if this thing with Charles didn't go anywhere?_

Erik was trying to distance himself from his growing feelings by questioning their veracity. He'd never been emotionally involved with anyone before so he had no frame of reference. Not unless you counted Sebastian. And Erik very much did not. Not unless _perpetually belittled_ and _guilt-tripped-and-manipulated-into-staying-with him counted as emotionally involved_. Erik thought not.

He grabbed some tissues from the bedside cabinet, absentmindedly wiping his palm before automatically picking up his phone. He wasn't expecting an email - it was the weekend, after all - despite Charles' initial response having been sent at what Erik had calculated to be close to 11pm U.K-time on Friday. He'd already dwelt far too much on what that might mean, so he tried not to be disappointed when there were only promotional offers from Amazon and Starbucks in his inbox. He didn't even like Starbucks' coffee.

Growling, Erik got up and pulled on some joggers. A run before a shower and breakfast was a luxury he had not been permitted for some time.

\----

Erik was relieved no end as he deposited his suitcase and hold-all carelessly on the parquet floor of his apartment. New York was sometimes considered less convenient for actors but Erik loved the metropolitan, cultural melting pot and loathed the all-style-no-substance of LA, irrespective of its convenience for some studio work, so it was an easy decision when he purchased a space to call his own.

He wasn't quite sure it was _home_ \- maybe not yet, maybe it never would be. Erik had a vague feeling that _home_ was not necessarily a place. At least not for him. Of course, that could be attributed to all the time he spent travelling, never in the apartment for long enough in one stretch to really get familiar with it, but he sensed his past meant he was looking for something a little more concrete than bricks and mortar.

Nevertheless, it was good to be able to catch his breath in the privacy of somewhere familiar. And wear some clothes different to those on regular circulation through the on-set laundry, his suitcase and then onto his back again.

Erik would be here for four weeks this time. It seemed like an eternity.

New York was convenient for theatre workshop space and it was this saving grace that had allowed Erik to sign on for _Othello_. Rehearsals had been scheduled to start in London this week and this had proved a stumbling block during final contract negotiations for his involvement when Emma had brought up the matter of Erik's promotional commitments to _Out of this World_ , an animated space-adventure in which Erik had voiced a misunderstood alien named _The Magenta Monster._ He'd like the character's conflicted nature; had thought it refreshingly grey in the usual black-and-white, good versus evil world of children-oriented films.

Eventually, the problem had solved itself. The film would be released three weeks later in Europe than in the U.S.. Rehearsals would be held in New York during the period of Erik's promotional work before moving to London, allowing for rehearsal time in the theatre that would be hosting them. Fortunately two of the other leads - both British actors - we're currently based in the States anyway. Erik would spend two days and three evenings a week doing promo work. He was going to be busy, but he was getting to do _Othello_ , a play he loved, with a director he had a lot of time for.

He slipped his shoes off and made a beeline for the bathroom, shedding further articles of clothing en route. He'd snatched a shower this morning before his drive to the airport but it'd been so rushed he hadn't been able to shake off the mingled scents of alcohol and barbecued food from the previous night's wrap party. Travelling had simply heaped air-conditioned spaces and airport coffee into that heady mix.

Erik had enjoyed the party more than he'd thought, his obligatory appearance maybe somewhat enhanced by the thought that this would be the last time he'd have to see James Howlett until the promotional gauntlet was run for Like Ships In The Night. The man rubbed him up the wrong way. And not in the sexual sense of that phrase either. The thought made him shiver. Ugh.

It had been held in the garden of a pub near to the set that the crew had frequented a fair bit, and the landlord had gone to some trouble to string fairy lights from the parasols on each of the garden tables and to ensure patio heaters warmed the still-chilled May evening air. Bats had flitted about as the sunset and Erik had felt peaceful, reclined in a patio chair, beer in hand and surrounded by nature.

He hadn't been bothered by a lot of people, but Remy had joined him for a few minutes, the man laughing at his own jokes before rejoining the crew and the line for the barbecue. Erik had done his best tin ensure he thanked the numerous members of the production team, a habit he had started onhis first ever acting job and was determined to continue. He may be surly and aloof, but that did not mean he didn't appreciate the hard work and effort that went in to a film - or play - that was not explicitly played out in screen or stage. He liked to think it didn't hurt his reputation when he was being considered for a role.

Erik returned to his hotel long before the rest of the party disbanded, but this wasn't unusual. He'd spent a pretty restless night tossing and turning, eager to be away and eager for Monday - and with it Charles' return to work (and his emails) - to roll around.

\----

Emerging from his shower a long 30 minutes later, refreshed and with significantly less tense shoulders (he'd missed its power and the massaging side jets more than he would like to admit) and a significantly less tense _something else_ , Erik finally had to give in to the urge to check his emails. Somehow he'd managed to resist doing so so far, torn between his eagerness to hear from Charles and a nagging apprehensiveness that the man wouldn't have responded now that he knew it was actually Erik involved.

It was 9pm in New York, making it 2am in Britain. Less of a time difference now he was back on the east coast. Charles would be asleep. Erik stopped his mind from wandering there and tried to focus back on the task at hand.

Instead of his phone, Erik opened up his long-neglected laptop on the desk in his study, figuring it'd be easier to respond to any other emails. His shower and the change in time zone meant sleep wouldn't be welcoming him any time soon.

He padded barefoot into the kitchen, grabbing some bottled water from his refrigerator whilst he waited for the computer to load. He toyed with the idea of take-out before settling for some cereal. Thank goodness for cheery cleaning ladies who got him in the essentials - milk - when he remembered to advise them he was returning.

Returning to the study, Erik relaxed into his padded office chair and took the plunge, opening his email folder. It caught his eye immediately, his eyes like a hawk's, seeking out the X of Charles' surname, its capitalisation and infrequent daily usage making it all the more noticeable.

Steeling himself against rejection (he had an email now, what was he expecting? - He had no idea) he opened the message and began to read...

\----

Erik couldn't help but give himself a rueful smile. For all Charles' playful chastising of Erik's self-deprecation during their dinner, the man had something of an inclination towards it himself. He was charmed by Charles' words, the man's friendly manner coming across clearly in his words, his intellect apparent even in an area he only had a recreational interest in.

A grin as wide as his face grew on Erik's lips, he felt so happy. Charles came across exactly as he had during their meal. Just as beautifully as Erik remembered. He wasn't imagining this man's brilliance or enhancing his attributes.

He felt dumbfounded that an email that mostly focussed on _Othello_ could make him feel quite as wobbly as it did, his feelings for Charles multiplying with each word. As he read and reread it, Erik's feelings cemented themselves. Irrespective of whether Charles had someone else (he remembered the mention of his date.... Inadvertently assisting Erik in his quest for inspiration for that aspect of his _Othello_...) This was the man for him. Even if he could never have him, Erik had fallen. Hard.

Now, just how did you respond to an email, having learned _that_?!


	9. In which Charles goes out. To a club.

Charles was pissed off. At himself. It'd been almost two weeks since he'd emailed Erik Lehnsherr and he still couldn't get the man out of his head.

Not even now, propping up the bar in his favourite club - a rare excursion these days - with the prospect of the hot blond he could see eying him up from a nearby booth.

He'd intended tonight to be a complete blow out - it was the end of a long couple of weeks and Charles had been determined to relive the good old days: go out, get wrecked, get laid, spend the weekend hungover and nursing innumerable cups of tea and fried egg sandwiches. A tried and tested formula to overcome any heartache. Or so he'd thought.

It wasn't like he was expecting a reply - he'd told himself that the manner in which he'd signed off the email was a figurative closed door; that Erik would have no reason to respond, not even to just be polite.

But his poor infatuated brain continued to hope that Erik would do so anyway; that he'd respond with an email equal parts subtle sarcasm and wry observation, irreverent and self-effacing, regaling Charles with anecdotes about _Othello_ and enquiring about Charles' research. Pretty much like their - _only_ \- conversation. But what a conversation! He'd not hit if off with someone like that - laughing so readily, disagreeing so easily - for a long time, if ever really.

He'd even tried telling himself that the Erik Lehnsherr he had met was an image, a Hollywood construct designed to be charming but his head continued to highlight the fact that he _knew_ this not to be true: the Erik Lehnsherr in the few interviews he gave (Charles had looked - information in the public sphere, [relatively] freely given, he was comfortable with, when the need arose) was sarcastic to the point of rudeness, fiercely private, stoic and sober. Charles had been afforded a glimpse of what might be the _real_ Erik Lehnsherr. And he had liked what he had seen. So much.

And therein lies the problem. So he found himself ordering another Gin and Tonic, chasing a state of inebriation that would silence his aching heart and liberate his constrained libido.

He sauntered over - there was no harm in keeping his chips in play on the off-chance he'd manage to sink into drunken liaison-territory - to the booth where Moira, Sean and Darwin were huddled in conversation. Charles noted with some consternation that their drinks tally was far less impressive than his own, but the state of their inebriation was far greater.

"Charlessss!!" Moira slurred. "Did you know that hot blond over there has been giving that arse of yours more than a few lecherous glances?! You should definitely tap that!"

Charles sighed. He knew he should, but he just shrugged before he slid into the booth next to Darwin. Moira became quite a bit more licentious when drunk. Sean never ceased to list it amongst his favourite features of hers. The amused look of adoration the man opposite Charles was now favouring her with was evidence of that, even to the untrained eye.

_Yet another an infuriatingly happy couple..._

The sigh he gave as Sean and Moira started nuzzling one another was heavier than his last.

What he wouldn't give for someone _else_ to be checking out his arse. Or for the opportunity to nuzzle a particular _someone_ _else's_...

"Not in the mood then, eh, Charles?!" Darwin teased.

He most definitely _was_ in the mood. Not just not in the mood for anyone _here_. Annoyingly.

"Hmm? Erm... no, not really. I am glad, however, that I'm not the only one here alone tonight."

Darwin laughed.

"Yeah, well not for want of trying'l

"Where is this delightful new man of yours, anyway? I'd been looking forward to meeting him since I already feel like I know him!"

To say Darwin was head-over-heels was something of an understatement. He seemed to manage to mention something about Alex in every conversation he and Charles shared just recently.

"Sleeping off his jet lag. He was delayed in getting back from Canada, unfortunately. He'd wanted to be here by now. He should be driving up tomorrow instead. He missed his Mum's birthday and everything."

Charles smiled at his friend's fond expression, happy for Darwin, despite what looked increasingly like another entry on the ever-growing list of Charles' attached friends.

"Yeah, left me to deal with the fall-out from his brother when he couldn't get hold of him. Not a happy experience! But, hey, you know Scott, right?!"

Darwin raised his eyebrows in mock-innocence. Charles shot his friend a petulant smile back. His date and subsequent attempts at avoiding Scott were something of a running joke in the lab.

As their conversation faded to a comfortable silence, the thumping bass increasing in power, Charles realised just how low on the scale of inebriation he really was. No sufficiently drink-addled brain would make the connection that his just did.

Scott's brother. Back from Canada.

"Has Alex been working on a film?"

"Oh? Yeah. Yeah, he has. Some romantic drama. Big deal apparently, stunt woman friend, acquaintance of Scott's - Angel, I think - put in a good word for Alex. He's hoping it'll be a break for him, in the industry."

Charles couldn't help but chuckle; apparently Scott had exaggerated Alex' career during their argument. The man's need for the upper hand was breathtaking.

_Not even if he was the last man on Earth..._

"Sounds like he really enjoyed it, most of the cast were really friendly. He said he'd been a bit star-struck though. He tried to remain inconspicuous, didn't want to piss off anyone and ruin his chances, you know?"

Charles didn't know whether to laugh, cry or breathe a sigh of relief. Faced with the possibilty of enquiring as to what Alex knew; to find out for definite whether Erik Lehnsherr and Remy LeBeau were a thing or not - and in the process betray his strongly-held belief about the right to privacy of those in the public eye - he was extremely glad that it appeared there was little chance that Alex would have anything to tell. He kept his lips sealed.

It didn't surprise Charles that there was a part of him that might've asked Alex if he'd thought there'd be an answer. Just like it didn't surprise him that he was hung up on someone he could never have. Or that he was jealous of someone he would never know. He'd just hoped he'd gotten all that stuff out of his system years ago.

He had a steady job - more than steady, really - great friends, was comfortably off (even without the inheritance, _thank you Mother_ ) and had thought he'd have the relationship to go with it all by now.

Yet here he was, failing to get drunk enough to respond to the advances of a man who, in all his taut musculature and impressive cheekbones, could not hold a candle to a man who was little more than a figment of Charles' imagination.

Even more disconcertingly, Charles found himself not caring.

Right this minute, in the middle of a smelly, sticky club, Charles didn't want to want anyone else, his own expectations be damned.

He'd tried his best to beat it into submission but the ache in his gut that had steadily gnawed at him since that night suddenly resurfaced with the force of a freight train. It was Erik or no one.

\----

Charles had left the club after that, his best-laid plans a lost cause. Most definitely _not_ laid.

The only thing that differed from his initial plan for the weekend was the sex. Or rather the lack thereof. And what's more Charles didn't even care.

He'd spent much of Saturday afternoon, between fried egg sandwiches-with-various-condiments and numerous varieties of tea, carefully crafting a watertight justification of the abstinence that would inevitably prevail between now and the time Charles got over Erik Lehnsherr. Either figuratively or literally.

He was so resigned he even laughed at that joke.

He'd laid on his sofa for most of Sunday, driving himself slowly insane. Torturing himself, really, considering whether it would be too needy, too forward, too downright weird to send another email to Erik. He'd quickly decided it would be - _he was a grown man who should know when to call it quits for goodness' sake!_ \- but that hadn't prevented his subconscious from bringing his brain round to all and any tenuous scenario in which he might be able to justify sharing a casual anecdote or making a friendly enquiry as to the man's health.

He'd spent so long in this occupation that he'd completely lost track of time. Hungry again, some hours after his last fried-egg-and-mayonnaise sandwich, he'd grabbed his phone to order pizza. Stretching lazily to get a hand on his iPad, Charles nearly dropped it when he saw there was an email from Erik.

All thoughts of a supplement to his egg-and-bread weekend diet swiftly disappeared.


	10. In which Erik is Blocked. And rehearses. And has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know next to nothing about theatre production so please suspend your disbelief at all and any glaring inaccuracies! Thanks!

Erik still fantasised about Charles as much as ever, but he knew now that he wasn't being led by his cock. His heart was pulling the strings.

It was this revelation that had gained him a severe case of Writer's Block. And he wasn't even a writer. He was stupefied. He could not think of a single thing to write back to Charles that didn't appear too intense, too ridiculous or too laughable. It was agony.

Charles' email had been quite final. _I'll be sure to look out for it_. It wasn't a sentence to which a response was required. If it was said in conversation, it would be what you said as you walked away. Just something polite and offhand.

He couldn't allow himself to think about what that meant.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. He'd reminded himself of the words, well-intended but resented by Erik at the time, of a fellow actor, well into his eighth decade:

_This industry is a difficult one. Those who want your fame, your facade, grab you with both hands. Those who want the real you let you go._

He knew it might not completely fit their circumstances - it wasn't like Charles could have jumped into his luggage the day after their meal, or that they had anything to _let go_ _of_ two hours after meeting - but he couldn't help hoping that maybe the man who'd made such a distinction between fame and celebrity might have let him go, in the same way Erik had. A missed opportunity.

It was a tenuous link, but Erik had had to have something to cling to. He was all too aware of the fact that, with every day that went by, the chances of Charles falling for someone, meeting someone or just shagging someone (his possessive streak wasn't one of his better features, and that was saying something!) increased exponentially. If he wasn't already taken. The more he thought about it the more he reasoned that Charles probably was already taken. That he should just back right off, quit while he was ahead. End the ridiculous quest he was starting for Charles' heart.

He was actually doing too much thinking. Thoughts had Erik paralysed; the need for his next move to be perfect was all-consuming. The stakes had been raised ridiculously high when Erik had realised just how entangled his wasted heart already was.

Rehearsals were almost two weeks in and going well. Promotional commitments were manageable. Othello was a character he could understand, his rage and jealousy all too-relatable for Erik, the two notable men from the story of his life inspiring one of those emotions each. He didn't want to dwell on Sebastian though. Sebastian was his past. He wanted Charles to be his future. Then he could eliminate the jealousy. Well, probably not entirely.

In Othello, at least, he had a distraction during working hours but his current circumstances meant that, for once, he didn't bring thoughts of his work home. 

Talk had already turned to the theatre in London, of the stage directions that they would flesh out when they rehearsed there in two weeks' time.

Ironically, it was work that ended Erik's Block, a flash of inspiration driven by Erik's co-star talking about family tickets, that the theatre they would be performing in afforded some excellent views of the audience when the lighting was just so; about how intimating it could be for an actor, to clearly see the faces of loved ones watching your every move.

He could offer Charles some tickets. In thanks for his inspiration; his words on the play. It was public enough to not seem overkeen and yet it could also afford Erik the opportunity to bump into Charles - maybe in the foyer before the performance? - and ask him out for coffee, to discuss his thoughts on Erik's interpretation....

The more he thought about it, the more he realised what a perfect idea it was. This was an opportunity he could not miss. Would not miss. Not this time.


	11. In which Charles goes to the theatre.

Charles was nervous. He'd tried not to be, tried not to read anything into the seats, third row back and centre, the best in the house, but he was beginning to struggle.

Moira had noticed. Charles had brought her, as usual, the two of them the only ones who shared a love of theatre amongst their group of friends.

Grabbing his right forearm, she pinned it down to the armrest between them in an attempt to stall Charles' wild gesticulations. Charles stopped, his head snapping to face her direction, lips poised to start a protest until any words he'd had the intention of uttering died at the look on his friend's face.

"Charles. Something tells me that more than the prospect of the lavish stage production we're about to watch has got your knickers in a twist. You love theatre but you're never normally this excitable, never normally book seats _quite_ this good, so I _know_ it's something else!"

When Charles looks like he's about to protest, she holds up her own right hand in a gesture that's intended to stop Charles in his tracks. It works. With a small smirk and a raised eyebrow, she continues.

"Now Charles, I for one think that the casting is excellent and the director has shown evidence of brilliance as, I imagine, do the cast and at least a sizeable proportion of the audience. But looking around, I don't see all of them fidgeting like a child who's just caught Santa in the act of delivering their new bike!"

Charles blinks. Blinks again. Looks like said child has just had said bike taken away on the grounds of bad behaviour that year after all.

"Sorry Moira. I'll calm down."

Moira's smirk increases in intensity.

"So, dish. I'm right, aren't I? There's more to this than meets the eye..."

Her eyes don't leave Charles. He feels like a rabbit in headlights.

Breathe. _You are not a 14-year old with his first crush._ Breathe.

"I've honestly no idea what you're talking about, Moira. A production with a cast of this calibre is exceptional. The actors are so diversely talented and have so much history on the stage - in performances and as characters both loved and reviled. I haven't seen a line-up that has the potential to set so many reviewers rabid with opinion and hyperbole as this one has for quite some time!"

Charles risked a glance at his friend, his eyes darting from where they'd been fixed just above her shoulder. She almost looked convinced.

"I've got my eye on you, Charles Xavier." Another smirk.

_Yes, I know. And that's one of the reasons I'm so nervous...._

\----

If levelled with the accusation that his head had been somewhat _in the clouds_ over the past few weeks, Charles didn't think he'd have a convincing argument to the contrary.

He'd been more distracted than usual, more likely to be caught mid-daydream than focussing on anything going on around him and certainly not with his usual rapt attention.

His friends, who still did not know of anything going on his love life since his date with Scott, had started to suspect a mystery man. Just not one quite this mysterious.

Speculation about his identity, which conference or pub Charles had met him at, whether he was blond or dark-haired, older or younger, intellectual or 'bit of rough' (he'd tried so very hard not to snort when Moira had posited this idea over lunch with Darwin one Tuesday) had simmered through their days and Charles had done his best - which, happily, transpired to be good enough _for now_ \- to keep this part of his life private.

That's what he told himself. It was private, not a secret, but just something that Charles had for himself.

He hadn't even told Raven. But she was currently hiking in the Pennines with Irene and hadn't even stopped by the house to say 'Hello' _en route_ , so Charles didn't feel so bad about keeping a secret right at this moment.

Not that it was a secret, just _private_.

\----

Charles had been so convinced that he'd never hear from Erik Lehnsherr again that he'd considered eating his body weight in fried egg-and-mayonnaise sandwiches and becoming a recluse until such a time would arrive when miraculously, one day, he was over the man. Then he'd emerge, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, miraculously shed the weight he'd inevitably gained in emulation of said butterfly and meet someone nice, someone real with whom he could have the children whose offspring he could eventually regale with the tale of _When Grandad Had Dinner With A Filmstar._

He'd been so convinced that he'd never hear from the man again that he felt like he could now empathise with the cartoon characters whose jaws fall open in surprise.

It'd taken a good three or four minutes for Charles to overcome his shock before he could open the email from Erik Lehnsherr that landed in his inbox that Sunday. Short but (dare he say it?) sweet.

_Dear Charles_

_I'd very much like to return the favour, both for your inspirational thoughts on Othello and your invitation for dinner, if you'll allow me?_

_If you're interested, I could arrange tickets for you?_

_Let me know which performance is best for you._

_I'll look forward to hearing from you._

_Erik_

Charles had been very interested.

His heart had sunk when he'd seen that the play was running from June to August. He had term to finish up and then he was heading to America for a lecture tour and a holiday. Would he have time to see it before he left?

He'd grappled with his satchel, eventually retrieving the itinerary the tour organiser had posted him - apparently email didn't exist amongst aging professors at Columbia. He had two days between the first date he could feasibly leave Oxford and that of his flight out. He had allowed more than enough time in America before his first lecture but not much of a window in England to see a play as well as pack and leave the house in a state fit for Raven and Irene to inhabit in his absence. It would just have to be enough. His heart lifted slightly.

Like he'd give up the opportunity to see the man on stage. He briefly wondered if Erik would be wearing tights....

That thought was more than enough to have him typing a hasty reply. Not that he'd wanted to seem too keen. After all, this was a _bona fide_ Hollywood actor politely returning an invitation, nothing more.

He waited a couple of hours before he hit _Send_.

\----

Throughout all the weeks of daydreaming Charles had kept the invitation to himself.

He knew that this attempt at protecting himself from his friends' teasing was also a thinly veiled coping mechanism. He hoped it was one that would insulate him from the prospect of those same friends' sympathy, should they learn of his unrequited feelings for an unobtainable dream of a man.

Unfortunately, his unconscious mind did him no favours, Charles' fantasies of the man playing out in glorious technicolour night after night. All emotions aside, Charles's physical attraction to the man was not going anywhere. The prospect of seeing him again in person, albeit on a stage, was one he found enticing.

Even so, on more than one occasion, Charles had considered simply not going to the theatre, concerned about the impact physical proximity would have on his fragile heart. After all, he wouldn't even need to dream up a feasible excuse.... He figured Erik Lehnsherr would have no reason to look out for him..

The thoughts didn't last long though, his impeccable manners and the knowledge that empty seats so close to the stage would not go unnoticed enough to dissuade him from seriously entertaining the notion. He'd just have to try to enjoy the view....

\----

That's how he found himself anxiously trying to deflect Moira's attention, eagerly anticipating a second opportunity to see this gorgeous, intelligent, brilliant man in the flesh. And trying not to make it too obvious. Or hope too much about what it meant. It's not like Erik had invited him backstage. He'd just leave like any other patron at the end of a show, maybe via the bar...

Fortunately, the curtain came to his rescue, beginning to raise just as Moira seemed poised to restart her interrogation from another angle. He didn't have time to be nervous after that.

\----

Charles would have been impressed with the performance irrespective of the actors involved. The production was good. Very good. He'd been swept up in the passion that seemed to run through the actors. Erik's Iago, so driven by jealousy, by envy, was inspired, the murder of his wife so visceral, his scheming so malicious. He could quite believe the man's portrayal of a man haunted by his own feelings of inadequacy, at once so private and so single-mindedly driven.

The evening had flown by, not that Charles was surprised. He glanced at his phone to check the time, conscious that Moira was due to catch the last train, Charles having checked into a hotel for the night, it being slightly more convenient for the airport tomorrow.

He stilled at the sight of the notification of the nine calls he had missed while his phone was on Silent, moving almost imperceptibly to swipe the screen and access the text message the screen showed in its entirety anyway, the words forceful in their brevity. From Irene.

Call me. NOW


	12. In which Erik thinks. About Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi
> 
> I appreciate the length of chapters in this fic is somewhat unpredictable. It's not so much by design as to do with how much there is to tell in each perspective at any one time.
> 
> I'd considered switching between Erik and Charles in single chapters but it didn't work for me.
> 
> I'm finding that I'm a little bit ahead with writing the alternating perspectives so I *might* post more than once a day on occasion. Maybe it'll make up for it if I miss a day!
> 
> The story of these two dorks won't go on forever, but there's a bit still to go as yet.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me.

It had been a relief to Erik, the idea about tickets. If he hadn't thought of some way to reengage with Charles, he didn't know whether he would have been able to stop himself from simply turning up at the man's university office with a bouquet of roses in some cheesy rehash of an overused cliché. He couldn't help but feel like Charles deserved more than that.

Not that theatre tickets were more, but Erik wanted to get this _right_. He wanted to earnestly express his feelings, not simply turn up and appear like some lust-crazed teenager, putting the man on the spot and risking embarrassment - for both of them - and disappointment for Erik when Charles would let him down, ever so gently.

If he wanted Charles, he needed Charles to want him in return. That meant spending time with the man, if he would agree to it; Charles getting to know Erik too. He realised feeling this way after two hours in Charles' company might be a little intense -   _would_ be intense - so he would do his best to temper his ardour, hard as it may be.

Erik had to at least try. He was becoming familiar with the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the knot that twisted whenever he thought of Charles; the ache that he was beginning to recognise as loneliness. He'd never been lonely before, content if not quite happy in his own company, self-sufficient and insular, even in the industry in which he worked.

He found that state of quiet solitude elusive now. He didn't want it back.

Erik had to try. Easier said than done when your life isn't in one fixed place. Isn't anywhere near Charles most of the time.

He'd considered asking Charles for coffee when he'd been drafting the email. For once he'd actually managed to keep some semblance of sanity and not obsessed about the wording for hours, resolving just to be himself. Maybe himself at his most polite, but himself nonetheless. He'd decided against asking Charles for coffee only because he'd resolved to go one better - ask him out for coffee _in person_.

Erik needed to make the most of each and every opportunity. He had never felt a connection like this before, heart aching when he thought of Charles not feeling the same. He simultaneously wanted to work through it, work hard to earn Charles' regard, put everything he could into winning this exceptional man and bury his head in the sand, try to forget Charles, wallow in the self-pity that would inevitably descend when Charles didn't reciprocate his affection. It was an exquisite type of torture, putting off the inevitable like this, giving it his best shot instead.

It didn't bother him as much as he'd expected it to. He rather suspected that was Charles' doing.

Erik was resolute. He'd decided he would catch Charles before he left the theatre - hoping he could bump into the man in the bar or the foyer and ask him his view on the performance. So what if it meant running the gauntlet inside rather than at the stage door? Charles was worth it.

\----

He had been oddly buoyant in the days following his email, not least because of Charles' response.

_Hello Erik!_

_Yes please, I'd love that, it's very kind of you to think of me. Thank you!_

_I can make it on June 23rd, if that's OK?_

_Should I collect the tickets at the box office? I'm sure you'll know what's best!_

_Oh! And I'm very well, thank you. I trust this finds you the same._

_Yours,_

_Charles_

 

This time Erik had memorised the email for more positive reasons. How could one man convey so much joy in 58 words?! The email practically effervesced, Charles' joy in life almost tangible through the screen.

He'd continued to be besotted, spurred on to do the best work he could on the production, knowing that Charles would be watching. Well. Once, at least.

\----

And so he found himself, in the wings of the theatre, more nervous than he had been on opening night. He couldn't see Charles from here, but he knew his precise location, knew when the lighting would allow him to glimpse the central seats in the third row, the seats whose numbers he'd so carefully given to the box office; the first occasion he'd ever had call to request tickets, Emma always receiving hers courtesy of the theatre direct.

It felt nice, that he was doing this for Charles. Whilst the man was neither friend nor family - _not yet_ \- Erik hoped tonight would be the start of a journey to change that. That maybe, one day, Charles could be both.


	13. In which Charles spends time with Raven and Irene. And is pelted with chocolate-covered sweets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think there will be 29 chapters - I got around to assigning plot points to each one yesterday. This way my head is clearer and if part of another chapter pops up, as does happen when I'm aimlessly walking, I can simply just type it up and then refocus on the chapter at hand!
> 
> Thanks for all your comments and kudos - I hadn't realised when I started writing this how much they would encourage me. I think they have also inspired me to greater plot points to as I want to do my best by you all!
> 
> Enjoy!

Charles had been up and out of his seat before he could even start to panic, pressing call before he was out of the auditorium and hailing a cab before Irene had even answered.

He was glad he'd been sitting in the back of the black cab when she did pick up as he wasn't sure he could have remained standing after hearing her voice, hoarse and broken by sobs as it was.

Raven had been rushed to hospital. Via helicopter. She was currently in theatre. In Preston. Something about legs and falls and rocks that Charles couldn't decipher between Irene's gulping inhalations and wracking cries.

 It'd taken about 10 minutes to elicit even that from Irene, frantic with worry and all alone as she was. Charles had been relieved when the cabbie had answered in the affirmative when he'd asked if he could get him to the Royal Preston Hospital. Bugger the cost.

 

\----

 

Charles had spent the four hour journey desperately trying - and failing - not to panic. He'd called the hospital but was told the old classic - no one was available to speak to. At least, he supposed, that meant they were off saving lives and not simply hanging around to answer frantic relatives' queries. He'd resorted to firing off intermittent texts to Irene, attempted gestures of comfort that he knew were futile but persevered with anyway, the occupation of his hands something Charles could focus on.

Once he'd thrown quite a bit of cash at the driver, he'd rushed to Irene's side, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his eyes darting between signs to get him to the surgical ward as directly as possible through the rabbit warren of corridors.

Irene had been sitting in a wipe-clean cushioned chair, pine-armed and low off the floor; hospital standard-issue. She'd looked small, hunched in on herself, shoulders heaving irregularly as she whimpered quietly, exhaustion setting in. Charles had wrapped his arms around her, engulfing her in affection as she'd quieted enough to recount what had happened.

Raven had fallen, severely, as she and Irene had begun the descent of their hike. The wet ground had combined with sharp rocks to effectively shatter her legs, a freak combination of poor conditions and bad luck.

 The surgeon had emerged not long after Charles' arrival, her pronouncement that the operation had been successful a balm to his and Irene's frayed nerves.

 

\----

 

They could laugh about it now, of course, ten days later. In typical Xavier-child fashion, Raven was brushing the whole incident off as just another of life's chapters. It could have been far worse. She just simply refused to dwell on _what ifs_ \- it wasn't her style.

Raven's legs were in impressive casts and the lady herself was comfortably ensconced in one of Charles' guest bedrooms after an interesting journey up the stairs.

Her injuries were far less severe than had been first thought, the helicopter journey necessitated by their location having served to heighten Irene's shock. Raven would be in her casts for at least eight weeks and would need physical therapy after they came off, but her prognosis was otherwise excellent.

Charles and Irene were currently lying on the guest room bed, stretched out on either side of Raven, giggling and hurling chocolate-covered raisins at each other.

Charles had enjoyed his unexpected sojourn with his sister and sister-in-law and, somewhat predictably, their physical proximity had reinforced their emotional closeness. He'd known it was only a matter of time before he capitulated.

Raven had asked earlier what he'd been doing to mean it took nine missed calls before he contacted Irene. It was all that was needed. Ten days he'd managed. Then this.

He'd crumbled, spilling out the story of Erik's email, his belief that it was a prank ("It does sound like something I'd do! I'll give you that. Ha! Classic!") the tickets, the play, ending it all lamenting that Erik obviously hadn't wanted to see Charles after the show, not suggesting anything in his email confirming Charles could pick the tickets up at the box office at any time.

 "It's just as well, I suppose. I'm not so sure I would have forsaken even five minutes with Erik Lehnsherr to race to your bedside, oh sister-of-mine!!!" 

Charles attempted a cheeky grin, trying at once to both lighten the mood and make what he suspected was a woeful attempt at masking his true feelings at the snub.

The comment had earned him a barrage of chocolate raisins, Irene recruited by Raven to her side on the grounds that her honour required defending in the face of Charles' vicious slur to her character.

"But you _would_ have pranked him like that. I dare say the only reason you didn't was because we were travelling!"

"That's not the _point_ , Irene!"

The raisin-throwing was countered by Charles' tickling, earning shrieks from a captive Raven and a swift exit from Irene, excusing herself to make tea.

Minutes later, as they paused to catch their breath Raven put on her figurative Thoughtful Hat. It only came out on occasion, meaning when it did, Charles paid attention.

"You know, there might be something in it yet, Charles."

"Hmm?" He was distracted by the steaming cup of Earl Grey Irene had just handed to him.

"Erik Lehnsherr has a reputation for being a Lone Ranger. You see it all the time, stories of his anti-social nature on film sets. He seems very work-focussed. Maybe he's just been waiting to meet the right person..."

"Raven, you know how much time I have for the gossip rags you insist on perusing."

"Yes Charles, I know your impeccable intellectual credentials won't allow you to stoop so low as a bit of gossip. It can't all be false, though."

"I beg to differ, Raven. Anyway, if you do believe everything you read, you'd know that he's been seeing Remy LeBeau."

Charles didn't know if he'd ever seen Raven's eyes quite so wide.

"So you do follow these things! Or Erik Lehnsherr, at least!"

"No, Raven. Some tacky news channel was broadcasting grainy images during my date with Scott. It was so diabolical the whole painful experience is burned on my brain."

"What? The news story or the date with Scott?!"

Cue more laughter. Charles couldn't begrudge Raven this. She'd be bored enough over the coming months.

"I'm just not one for gossip Raven. These people are human beings with feelings, after all. I'm a scientist. I deal with proof, findings, not idle speculation."

"And don't I just know it!"

"Alright, you two! Time out already!" Irene sighed, popping a chocolate raisin into her mouth

"You know, Charles, all joking aside, Raven may have a point."

Raven looked smug. She gazed up through long eyelashes at her wife, making kissy faces as she did so.

“It's not like the man _had_ to get back in touch with you - he's gone out of his way to do so. And, contrary to what you may believe, you can actually be quite charming when you want to be Charles.”

Raven coughed. Charles blushed.

“You know, you scrub-up really rather well and I think a discerning gentleman such as Mr Lehnsherr would be a sucker for those big baby blues of yours. Not to mention that tight arse!”

“Irene!” Raven gasped.

“What?!” Irene raised her eyebrows as if in surprise.

“That's my brother you're talking about! Ewww”

“Well he's only my brother- _in-law_ , dearest, so notso-ewww. And it's true. Erik Lehnsherr could do a lot worse than Charles. And Charles certainly has had to put up with a lot worse than him!!”

Charles looked on, amused and just-a-little-bit-fond at his sisters. He was so glad to see them laughing, so far away from the trauma of ten days ago.

“In all seriousness, though, Charles, what have you got to lose?”

The ever-optimistic Raven.

“Yeah. I mean, if he actually isn't interested, all that will happen is that you'll never hear from him again. As far as I know, we're the only people who know anything about this and, whilst I know we can tease you - mercilessly at times - you have my word that both Raven and I will not utter a word in jest if this doesn't go the way you hope it might. One little email won't hurt, will it? After all, you've got the perfect anecdote now to recount to him! How your sister was rescued by helicopter as you watched him on stage!!!”

Charles looked at them both, now sitting wrapped in each others arms, their twin gazes trained on him in piercing union.

He would think about it. After all, it was true - he didn't have _anything_ to lose.


	14. In which Erik gives up.

Erik's feet pounded the pavement, not caring whether or not they landed in the murky puddles of London's streets. His chest heaved as he pushed himself ever-harder, 72 minutes into a punishing run.

The pain in his chest and the burn in his thighs were almost enough to distract him from the ache deep in the pit of his stomach.

Almost, but not quite.

Because if Erik were to sum up how he felt it would be easy. Shit. He felt like shit.

\----

He'd been so elated, that night a fortnight ago. He'd stepped out onto the stage, knowing that Charles was out there watching. When the lighting had been favourable, he'd stolen a glimpse of the man, his attention rapt as his eyes followed the action on stage.

Charles had looked stunning, his hair falling haphazardly over his eyes, the heavy-rimmed specs of his faculty photo framing what Erik knew were the clearest, bluest eyes he would ever have the privilege of meeting with his own.

Of course his heart had picked up its pace, adrenaline surging. He poured every ounce of his acting skill into his performance, intent on remaining focused, on demonstrating how inspired he was by Charles. Not that the man knew that. But Erik intended to tell him.

He had soared through the performance, lifted by the very fact of Charles' presence, yet at the same time driven to reach its conclusion, to bring with it Erik's opportunity to seek Charles out.

Just speaking to the man again was a proposition better than any casual sexual encounter Erik had experienced. Charles had him entranced, emotionally as well as physically. He so very desperately wanted the chance to see him again, to see if what he felt was even slightly reciprocated. To see if this could be more, one day.

Erik had sneaked another glance out at the auditorium during the intermission. Charles was seated in the right of the two seats Erik had booked as he looked at them, a woman to Charles' own right.

That threw the first metaphorical bucket of water Erik's way. He hadn't stopped to consider whether Charles was attached. Well, that was a lie. He had, barely able to believe that Charles wouldn't have been snapped up by someone clever enough to recognise all those features that Erik found so enchanting. But without confirmation that all hope was gone Erik had resolved that he was not treading on anyone's toes. He would never dream of doing so, no matter how much his heart wanted.

Yet here she was. The slender brunette seated beside him looked to be of a similar age to Charles. She was pretty in a shy, demure sort of way. Quite obviously girlfriend material. He could see she and Charles together. They would look good together. They did.

Still, Erik tried his best to put the woman to the back of his mind, resolving that all he intended to do was speak to the man. He would find out then where the land lay.

He was an actor. He would quite readily pretend that he hadn't pinned so many hopes on this encounter, on this man, He certainly wouldn't embarrass him by making it obvious.

No amount of planning or hoping or rationalising, however, could have prepared him for what occurred as the curtain came down. It was actually a fitting metaphor.

 

\----

The second metaphorical bucket poured as Erik had watched Charles dart from the theatre. He hadn't even intended to but a gap in the curtains had meant that he could see the gangway of the auditorium clearly.

The woman had followed shortly after. An argument, lovers' tiff… he wasn't sure, but the scene burned itself onto his mind.

Message received, loud and clear. Charles definitely didn't want to see Erik. It appeared he had other relationships - correction, _actual_   relationships, to occupy him.

\----

Erik's increasingly fragile heart had taken a beating that night. It was all he could do to stumble home. 

He'd returned to his rented flat on autopilot, skirting through the small huddle of people he had to disappoint at the stage door. He'd had a drink, then another before collapsing, exhausted both physically and mentally, into broken sleep.

Though not much had actually changed, it felt like everything had.

\----

He'd risen early as usual the following day, going through the motions of his morning run as his head worked through his new situation.

He would move on. It'd take time, but enough was enough. It was obvious that Charles was a lovely man, charming, funny, brilliant and intelligent, with blue eyes that were like windows into a mind, a man that Erik genuinely wanted to know, felt he could love. But that didn't mean Charles felt the same way. Erik could - would - respect that.

It didn't help lessen his hurt on that morning, but at least he thought it couldn't increase it.

\----

Running had started helping. A little, but it was something. The repetitive motion, the effort, the pain a distraction from everything else.

Erik couldn't wait for the play to move to Broadway. To be out of London, out of Britain, to put some distance between himself and memories of Charles. 

Surely then he would start to feel better. Surely nothing could happen to make him feel worse.


	15. In which Charles flies to New York. And sends an email.

Charles had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time pondering Raven and Irene's words.

 

They had occupied the vast majority of his time aboard his postponed flight to America, even distracting him from thoughts of his first lecture, scheduled for the following day. His delay at Raven's bedside had entirely eaten up his two-week cushion of preparation time stateside.

 

But Charles is nothing if not a careful planner. He had actually organised his notes and materials a while back. The only issue that had been caused was Charles' lack of time to fret, agonise and debate over the worth of his contribution. It probably wasn't a great loss.

 

He'd ended up drafting the email the night before his first lecture, figuring he wouldn't have much time after it, invited as he was to various functions and soirées. He accepted them as part and parcel of the burden befalling a visiting lecturer, designed to maximise his exposure to those with questions or rebuttals or, as often as not, propositions - both professional and otherwise.

 

There was a time when Charles would have thrown himself headlong into the delights that such eager admirers would offer him. Whilst a trip down memory lane was tempting physically, thoughts of Erik prevented him from looking with any degree of intent.The man was exerting quite the hold on him.

 

It was more or less this realisation that had finally tipped the balance in favour of sending the email. That and the two glasses of room service Dutch Courage he might have consumed before firing the email off into the ether. Charles hoped that if he got a response it would help him figure out whether there was - could be - anything between him and the man haunting his dreams. That Raven and Irene had been so effusive about his chances certainly hadn't hurt. And, like they said, if he didn't get a response, he would know for certain and no one would be any the wiser. No one he had to see again, anyway.

 

Because that _was_ the case. Charles had stopped trying to kid himself that he could simply get over Erik Lehnsherr, fried-egg-and-mayonnaise sandwiches or not.

 

His performance in Othello had been astonishing. His stage presence was magnetic and his passion electric. All the burgeoning feelings that Charles had been attempting to battle against had risen back to the surface, shocking him with their strength.

 

Plus the man was hot. So hot. Seeing him on stage was the first time Charles had been able to take in the man properly. Their meal had - obviously - been spent seated and whilst the man's ginger scruff and bedhead, lithe torso and long, dextrous fingers were more than enough to distract a man, seeing him on stage was on another level. All six-feet of lean muscle was on show, every inch of body used to convey his character's feelings. Certainly, no big-screen experience could even begin to compare to the real 3-D one.

 

It was saying something that he'd actually begun to consider waiting at the stage door after the show in an attempt to catch a handful of words with the man - to convey his thanks and express his admiration, even if only for the man's professional talents.

 

Charles _had_ thought about Erik every night since the play, his brotherly concern for Raven having been assuaged as soon as she'd cursed him for delaying his flight on account of her _little mishap_. He supposed sending a return email was no more fanciful than what he'd been considering at the theatre anyway.

  
_Here goes nothing... After all, I have nothing to lose..._


	16. In which Erik cries.

Erik stared so hard and for so long at the email notification that he didn't actually have time to read it before he heard his call.

Cursing in at least three different languages, he had stalked off, his time on stage inhabiting his character for once not the welcome distraction it had come to be.

 

\----

 

He'd spent the last two weeks in utter misery, running, showering, acting and sleeping his only major activities. Even eating had barely gotten a look-in. All in an attempt to distract himself from feeling like a complete fool for ever hoping and to punish himself for letting these newfound emotions get the better of him.

There had been times he'd wished he'd never met Professor Charles Xavier.

And then he'd be reminded of those blue eyes, that too-red smile, the quirks of his eyebrows and the curve of his mouth as he cheekily contradicted Erik and he'd find himself unable to regret one second that he'd spent in the man's company.

Then he'd curse himself for not doing something more at the time, or for not asking Charles to meet him after his performance, in spite of the sharp exit the man had made. Just something more.

 

\----

 

In the end, he'd waited until he got home to read it. He figured he'd waited this long, another 20 minutes wouldn't hurt.

That wasn't to say that a hundred and one different emotions hadn't run through his head on a loop during his tube journey. Surprise. Confusion. Hope. Apprehension. Shock. Fear. Hope. Despondency. Pragmatism. Hope. Realism. Nervousness. Hope. Self-deprecation. Anticipation. HOPE.

He'd decided to take the stairs up to his flat, leaping up the stairs in twos in the hope of burning off at least some of the nervous energy that had flooded his veins. He couldn't afford to hope, but his body had decided to betray him.

Steeling himself to open the email as he sat down with a glass of water, Erik rolled his shoulders in an effort to relieve their tension.

 

_Stop being so stupid, Erik! Calm down. Don't undo all your hard work. Not that it's done much good..._

 

\----

 

Erik sat there, dumbfounded for at least five minutes before he did something he hadn't done in some time.

He burst out laughing, deep belly-laughs, his eyes quickly filling with tears as he shook with the force of his hysterical outburst.

What he hadn't been expecting was for the laughter to descend into sobs, all the emotions he'd been bottling up over the past weeks bursting through the dam he'd created to protect his aching heart.

 

\----

 

_Dear Erik,_

_Hello! I truly hope this finds you well!_

_I'm writing this from my hotel room in New York, about to start my lecture tour. It strikes me as somewhat ridiculous that I have crossed the Atlantic away from you before I have gotten around to thanking you for the marvellous Othello tickets._

_So thank you! my friend, for affording me such a wonderful view of such a fine performance! The whole cast was truly astonishing but I must admit it was your performance that blew me away. Such emotion, you had me completely bought-in to your Machiavellian exploits!_

_I must apologise for not contacting you sooner, but I was called away on something of a family emergency; I even had to leave my friend to collect my bags from my hotel, such was my hasty exit! Please be assured though, the emergency has been resolved and all is well, but I would have felt remiss in not at least explaining why I have taken such an unforgivably long time to thank you for your kind gift._

_If there had ever been a favour to be returned, you have certainly done so admirably, my friend._

_As such, please do not feel that you are in any way obligated to respond to this email; I appreciate you must be extremely busy - I understand you will be heading back stateside with the wonderful Othello just as I leave it - ships in the night indeed! The West End's loss will be Broadway's gain._

_However, I would like to say this before I sign off. I very much enjoyed our conversation that night and have not enjoyed someone's company quite so much, nor found myself liking someone quite so much, for a long time. Well, ever really._

_There. I've said it. My sisters will be proud._

_Yours,_

_Charles_


	17. In which Charles does not get the response he was hoping for.

_Hello Charles_

_Thank you for your email - it came as quite the surprise, but a pleasant one. I am sorry for your family's troubles and glad to learn that they are resolved._

_I had hoped to seek you out for your thoughts after the show that night so I am gratified that you have gotten back in touch; you'd been so very insightful in your email and equally compelling during our dinner._

_In all honesty, I considered the tickets the least I could do for the pleasure of your company and I had hoped you would enjoy it after you were so effusive on the merits of theatre._

_It is, as you say, a shame that we currently pass like ships in the night, which also happens to be the name of my next film! I'd very much like to continue our correspondence, if you'd be happy to? You could tell me about your lecture tour and how you're finding the U.S, and these sisters you wished to please..._

_I'd very much like to keep in touch. I think I would very much enjoy your friendship._

_Yours,_

_Erik_

\----

Charles couldn't quite work out the tone of Erik's email. He'd been over the moon to receive it, deep as he was in the world of academia during the day and deep in the world of Erik's back catalogue at night. It was one of the only things he could do in his hotel room without the company of someone else - or his hand. Not that the latter didn't feature.

He wanted to believe what Raven had shared; that Erik Lehnsherr kept himself to himself; didn't wear his heart on his sleeve and that his words belied an emotional torrent beneath a calm exterior. But the fact that he had seemingly interpreted - or chosen to interpret - Charles' last words to him as platonic troubled Charles. How easily the written word could be misinterpreted.

The email seemed to stop short of outright openness; cautious, guarded, as if the sender was testing the water. Charles supposes Erik is and can't really blame him. The man is a film star, after all. It can't be easy forming genuine friendships. What Charles wouldn't give for an opportunity to see Erik, talk to him in person, look him in the eye and attempt to convey how he feels.

But that was not on the cards. At least not quite yet. Not for the first time he berated himself for booking the opulent holiday in Hawaii that he was due to take at the end of his tour. If he could have been in New York when the play transferred, he could have seen Erik's performance again, taken the chance to ask him for coffee, explored what - if anything - was, or could be, between them.

Before Erik, he would have relished the opportunity to do nothing but relax on the beach for two weeks. He might have even considered a holiday fling. Now he couldn't imagine anything he'd rather do less, his head so full of Erik and determined hope that he would consider it a betrayal. Until he knew for definite that Erik wanted nothing more than his friendship, he would continue to hope. He blamed Raven and her infectious optimism.

He hadn't told Raven or Irene anything about the emails yet; he knew all he'd get back was a barrage of questions and yet more optimism. He was almost tempted to tell them. A top-up of that optimism couldn't hurt.

The stories about Remy LeBeau and Erik continued to niggle at the back of Charles' mind. He knew better than to give the time of day to tabloid nonsense but the camera didn't lie. Erik and Remy leaving a trailer, physically close. The two of them reclining in garden seats beneath patio parasols strung with fairy lights. He'd even spied some on-set photos in a dated copy of Us magazine that had been in the hotel lobby - not that he'd been leafing through them at all. Much. The photos of the two men staring into one another's eyes had cut to the quick.

He'd wanted it to be him.

A relationship would quite easily explain why Erik chose to interpret Charles' words in the manner he had: a diplomatic and indirect way to let Charles down gently; a quiet confirmation that his feelings weren't reciprocated.

Be that as it may, Charles was man enough to take the proffered hand of friendship that Erik extended. He would not have expected it when they first met and now he would be glad of it, even if it turned out to be all that he would get. He was sure he could continue under such circumstances for some time to come. Get to know to know Erik; give Erik time to get to know him.

At least he hoped he could.


	18. In which Erik receives some news.

The emails Erik and Charles exchanged over the coming weeks were a balm to his shattered emotions. He hadn't realised quite how hard the fortnight of silence after Charles' sudden disappearance had hit him, of quite how much he wanted Charles to feel for him even a quarter of what Erik felt for Charles.

They wrote about pretty much anything and everything. It was easy, fun, natural. Like they'd always known each other. 

\----

The brief, sharp tears he had shed had shocked Erik. He hadn't cried since he was in his early teens. He hadn't felt anything so strong, so deep, to warrant the overspill of emotions.

He had barely believed it was happening, even as the tears fell. Erik hadn't been able to pinpoint whether the tears were ones of sadness, relief or sheer joy at Charles' words. He supposed it didn't really matter too much.

\----

He could believe it now, though. Charles was everything Erik remembered from their meal and more. And he hadn't left because he didn't want to see Erik! The relief that he'd felt at that was momentous in itself. Erik had chastised himself for being so quick to jump to the _worse-case-scenario_ , particularly when _Charles_ was the person concerned. Looking back, he didn't know how he'd thought it were possible for Charles to act in such a way, quite irrespective of the fact that Charles hadn't known of Erik's intentions!

If there was one thing Erik had taken from the two weeks of misery he'd put himself through, it was to try not to misinterpret situations, to not fill in the blanks without all the information; to not jump to conclusions.

It was with his this thought in mind that Erik didn't leap to all manner of conclusions at Charles' words.

_I very much enjoyed our conversation that night and have not enjoyed someone's company quite so much, nor found myself liking someone quite so much, for a long time. Well, ever really._

There was nothing there that suggested anything more than friendship. Sure, something in the tone, the context, the events leading up to it, gave Erik hope that whatever Charles was feeling wasn't entirely dissimilar to the way he felt, but he wouldn't take it as a given. Navigating emotions was _hard_.

It wasn't for nothing that he'd spent the best part of his twenties - before his name became too big, his face too recognisable, that is - being led around by his groin rather than his head, and certainly not his heart.

Charles' emails were full of dry anecdotes and sly remarks, of witty comments on Erik's misery at the British 'summer' and cheerful tales of his travels and lectures. There were also more than a few encouraging words concerning Erik's nerves at his upcoming debut treading the boards on the west of the Atlantic. But nothing overtly more than friendly.

\----

Erik couldn't quite bring himself to dismiss his long-held fantasies of Charles. The man's eyes, his smile, his _arse_ still the overriding features of Erik's dreams. He certainly hadn't even considered another man in some time. Erik didn't let _that_ thought worry him too much. For one, he didn't have the time. But secondly, there was a part of him that clung to the hope, impossible though it was, that he wasn't projecting, wasn't inventing the hints of _is-that-flirtation_ that littered Charles' correspondence. He wasn't quite ready to let it go just yet.

\----

He hadn't broached the subject of their meeting yet, although he dearly wanted to. Whilst they had been exchanging almost daily emails for the past four weeks, Erik was reluctant to push things too quickly. Furthermore, he knew that even though Charles and Erik would technically be in the same country for two weeks, the journey from New York to Hawaii was not exactly one that could be bridged by a quick train journey.

The sheer ridiculousness of their situation was not lost on Erik. It almost seemed like fate didn't want Erik and Charles to meet again - that their meeting in a candlelit restaurant one evening in Oxford was supposed to be all they had. Not that Erik believed in fate. Things would work out, they'd get there eventually. He had to believe in that.

The future looked brighter than it had in a long time.

\----

He had spoken too soon.

He should have recognised the signs earlier. Just when one thing starts to go right, something comes along to smash any contentment - _happiness_ \- into tiny pieces.

\----

Emma had been livid when he'd not responded to her emails regarding yet more promotional activity; premieres, interviews, Q&As on both sides of the Atlantic. He was truly amazed how quickly they turned around _Like Ships In The Night_ , although he supposed they wanted it released for what was typically 'Oscar Season' - Emma hadn't been wrong in that respect.

He'd responded in typical fashion.

“I would reply if I'd received an email from you, Emma!”

“Don't spout that bullshit excuse at me, Lehnsherr! I've got my usual delivery receipt here! I long ago learned to make sure I could hold you accountable for answering me!!”

"...."

“What have you got to say for yourself then?!”

“Emma, seriously, there might be something wrong with my connection or I dunno - it's not my area of expertise - but I honestly never received your email. Honestly. No bullshit.”

He'd dismissed it as a freak occurrence when Emma's re-sent email came through two minutes later. Unfortunately, that hadn't been the end of the matter.

\----

His phone had been ringing incessantly. He'd heard it from the shower but figured he'd let it go to voicemail. The fourth time he'd heard the phone start up again, indicating his number had been re-dialled, he'd sighed and moved out from underneath the refreshing spray, wrapping a towel around his waist and padded out to where his phone lay on the dresser. "

Emma, this better be good." He'd practically growled.

"Shut up Lehnsherr. It most certainly is not good. Get your skinny arse down to my office _post haste_. I'd rather tell you this in person."

Erik had stopped still, shocked. Emma was normally abrupt, but something in her tone was more serious than he'd ever heard it. Moreover, even when Emma did want to see him, she was normally the one seeking him out, all too aware that he wouldn't just do her bidding.

"What is it, Emma? Just tell me, I'm a big boy. Then, if I need to, I'll come down to your office."

She sighed.

"What does the name 'Sebastian Shaw' mean to you?"


	19. In which Charles holidays, reads a tabloid story and frets. A lot.

Charles really had tried to enjoy the final few days of his holiday but it had been difficult with Erik's silence niggling away at him.

He'd quite happily have taken that over _this_ though. Irrespective of the jet lag.

\----

Charles had stared at the screen through narrowed eyes, his brow furrowed. It was the second time he'd sent his latest email and the second time it had come back as undeliverable. He'd checked the address - despite having used the reply function from Erik's last email - and his wi-fi connectivity, but everything was ok. It seemed that Erik's email address was no longer in use.

He'd not heard from Erik in 36 hours and he knew it might appear needy but he had stuff he wanted to share. Charles had gone ahead and sent another email without first receiving Erik's reply.

He was flying back home in less than five hours - had to leave for the airport soon - and whilst he should have been lamenting the end of his holiday, he found himself instead feeling despondent. And worried. About this _thing_ with Erik. Whilst their emails might have been shorter while Charles swam and caught up on some reading and Erik settled in to his trans-Atlantic relocation, they had been no less frequent. Until now.

All Charles' neuroses had come crashing down onto him at once.

Had he come on too strong? Said something out of turn? Something offensive? He couldn't recall anything even remotely contentious, his emails mostly consisting of banal accounts of the same lecture in different places and his responses to Erik's own vastly more entertaining anecdotes. He knew he was prone to ranting on and on about a topic given half the chance, but Erik had repeatedly reassured him that he _enjoyed_ reading what Charles had to say.

Come to think of it, though, he had gotten seriously more-than-carried away about that complete farce of an article in _Scientific American_... Had Erik simply had enough and not been able to politely tell him straight? It didn't seem like the Erik Charles had been getting to know - that he knew now. Deleting your email account just to ignore someone would be a tad extreme.

But still, how else did you explain the complete radio silence and the two delivery failure reports glaring at Charles from his inbox?

Not for the first time, his stomach did a flip. This time, wholly not the good kind.

Maybe it was just a blip. He'd touch down back in London to two responses from Erik, to playful chastising of his own impatience. Yes. That would be it.

\----

That was four days ago. He thought he'd felt like shit then, but today was a new low.

He'd received an email, the ping of his phone earning his full attention at record speed. Unfortunately not an email from Erik, but an email _entitled_ 'Erik'. From Raven.

Thinking she was continuing in her sisterly teasing or digging for gossip on his so-called 'love life', Charles waited until his tea had finished brewing before swiping it open.

All the email contained was a link to a shitty tabloid's website, normally something of no interest to Charles. Raven knew this, of course, hence the email, intent as she was on keeping him in the loop with all he needed to know from the land of gossip-mongering-masquerading-as-journalism that he had precisely zero time for.

That this email was entitled Erik suggested the story was about him. Erik's last email hadn't spoken of any upcoming interviews or features. In fact, the man had expressed his agreement (for once!) with Charles' view that you couldn't believe anything you read in the red-tops or glossy celebrity magazines so beloved of fans and agents alike. He couldn't see Erik having willingly spoken with such a publication.

Charles' growing apprehension increased the speed with which he clicked on the link, sensing that bad news would be best addressed in the manner he afforded to ripping off a plaster: a short, sharp shock, quickly forgotten. Oh how he had hoped.

\----

Thinking about the story now, four hours, three cups of tea and two glasses of something considerably stronger later, Charles remains shellshocked.

He's struggling to believe that Erik's email no-show and Sebastian Shaw's tabloid 'exposé' are not in some way linked. It makes him at once angry at a man he doesn't know and concerned about the one he now does.

A million different questions, ideas and theories clutter his brain, occasionally spewing out a thought that is somewhat coherent, his mind somehow contriving to deliver up only the direst scenarios to torment Charles.

Does Erik not trust him? He is both hurt and chastened by the idea. Hurt as he'd thought there was at the very least an element of mutual respect between them. Surely he couldn't have got the situation _so wrong_? Chastened because he knows he's not the one having a hard time of it right now.

But what other real explanation can there be? If Erik really thought of Charles as a friend - even if as nothing more - surely he would have known he could rely on his support at a time like this? Reach out, for a friendly ear, a compassionate distraction... Not delete his entire email account and leave Charles with no way of contacting him....

Charles tries to not feel forlorn or hard-done-by, he's a grown man, _for goodness' sake...!_

But things had just started to get somewhere and now he is back to Square One. Or worse, completely off the grid.

He would really like to know why.

Despite all this, it doesn't even cross his mind to give credence to what this Sebastian Shaw is saying and it burns him even more that he doesn't have the means to convey this to Erik.

If it hadn't meant lining the pockets of the hideous corporations printing such garbage, he would have bought numerous copies just for the pleasure of drawing biro moustaches and devil horns on the smarmy face of the man.

If he had though, he'd have missed the knock at the door.


	20. In which Erik gets a pep talk.

Erik thought he'd probably been expecting something like this for the past 10 years. Sebastian always was the jealous type.

He couldn't have picked his moment better, though, really. Erik's star was rapidly ascending: the play was doing really well and the hype surrounding the transfer to America was quite something; he had several high-profile films either in the can or shooting soon and one of them was a rumoured Oscar contender.

Yes, Sebastian certainly knew how to pick his moments.

\----

Erik had been far calmer on the walk into Emma's office than she'd sounded on the phone.

He'd also been far calmer than Emma in person.

"What do you mean 'You were expecting something like this'?! You could have thought to tell me about it, Mr I-only-have-an-agent-to-make-her-life-a-living-hell!"

He hadn't known what _exactly_ Sebastian would do, but he had known the man would do something. And whilst he certainly wasn't the type to simply give up something he thought of as his, Erik had to admit that the story he'd dreamed up certainly went a long way to convincing even him that Sebastian didn't want him anymore, but not quite.

_Lover Lehnsherr Left Me Lonely_

Erik had not been able to contain a bark of incredulous laughter at the ridiculous alliteration of the headline.

Emma had been sent copy of the story by the British newspaper 72 hours before it would be published; a professional courtesy that was no more than a farce. Even if he'd been inclined to try to stop it, 72 hours would not be anywhere near enough.

As it was, Erik was inclined to simply laugh it off rather than give the man any satisfaction by responding to it. Emma was not so-inclined.

"This, Lehnsherr, is what happens when you don't play nice with the press; when you keep your private life zipped up so private that anything anyone says becomes canon because there's nothing already out there to contradict it."

"Emma." Erik's voice was at once both very deep and very calm. He looked her straight in the eyes, never wavering.

"Yes?" An eyebrow arched in anticipation.

"I hope we know each other well enough by now for you to realise that there really is barely an ounce of sense in this whole sorry piece."

"You mean there is an ounce, then?! Apparently I may not know you well enough...."

Erik held up his hands to placate Emma. He'd never seen her like this; normally unflappable and as cool as her name.

"Emma." That eyebrow again.

"The only ounce of truth is that, yes, I was once in a relationship with Sebastian. After that, it becomes fiction. And not very imaginative fiction at that. I mean, have you even _read_ this?! Funding an apartment then chucking him out? In Germany? Leading him to believe I'd wanted him _at my side_?! It's just pure nonsense! Complete and utter fabrication!"

Emma looked at the photo beneath the headline, a none-too-flattering portrait of a very old-looking Sebastian, probably hurriedly taken by some fawning photographer on the paper's payroll, trying and failing at the assignment to make the man look both attractive and hard-done-by. Erik didn't have the objectivity to see anything other than a sad, desperate old man.

"You were in a relationship with him?"

The eyebrow managed to convey dubiousness in a way Erik admired greatly. Maybe he'd try to emulate it one day on camera.

"See? There's the Emma I know! I'll take your skepticism as a compliment. And yes, I was. For about four months. It wasn't a particularly healthy one either. He was far too possessive, too jealous. He had a vicious streak too, that I was treated to when I mentioned being approached by the guy from my old agency. Couldn't stand the thought of me moving on to better things. Thought that belittling me, dismissing any talent the agency saw in me as ill-informed, would make me want to stay with him! I knew I was better off without him and my moving from Germany and my break from him came simultaneously. Needless to say, I didn't look back."

Emma smiled then. A rare, genuine smile.

"So, what do you want me to do?"

There was why, before Charles, Emma might have been his only true friend in the world.

\----

It had turned out that the paper had made a lame and extremely indiscreet attempt of hacking Erik's email account, managing only to access the inbox (and not the folders into which Erik always moved Charles' correspondence for safe-keeping and not-accidentally-deleting) and, even then, doing so so clumsily that they left a trail, namely a string of deleted emails.

Emma hired an Internet security expert who promptly deleted Erik's account - after Erik had copied Charles' numerous replies - and set him up with another, all-singing-all-dancing encrypted-up-to-its-eyeballs account.

Erik had rapidly fired off a brief explanation to Charles and sat down with Emma to discuss his options.

It didn't take long, really. Emma drafted a response that would be issued only to anyone who asked for one. Erik didn't feel going all-out on the defensive was his style. He'd always been private, why change now? Until such a time as he could find a use for the media, he would try to steer clear of too much exposure.

\----

If that were the hardest thing Erik had had to contend with upon his return to New York he would have considered himself a lucky man.

\----

Whilst Sebastian had certainly picked his moment, Erik hadn't been expecting his words to affect Charles as much as they appeared to have.

When Erik's first email went unanswered, he did a fairly good job of convincing himself that Charles was just busy; jet lag, adjusting back to life at home after a summer away, preparing for the new university year; catching up with research and all manner of other things a busy professor surely has on his plate.

When his second and third, admittedly probably very one-sided (he had nothing from Charles to bounce-off after all), emails also went unanswered, Erik began to panic, feeling the steady creep of his despondency at Charles' exit from the theatre returning.

He'd expected understanding from Charles. He'd expected a torrent of righteous vitriol on his behalf, if he were honest. He knew Charles well enough to know he was fiercely protective of those he considered friends. At least he thought he did. He'd also thought he was a friend.

\----

It was in his state of ever-increasing melancholy that Emma found Erik at lunchtime two days later, popping round to his apartment, a clutch of papers tucked neatly into her bag and a bottle of a half-decent Shiraz in her hand.

"I thought the glowing reviews and general tone of dismissiveness at the lowly British press' attempts to libel you would be enough to raise a smile, Lehnsherr. What's wrong? This is good news; no one worth knowing seems to be giving that creep Shaw's story the time of day."

Erik tried to muster a smile, if only to stop Emma from digging further.

It didn't work.

"Am I going to have to give you one of the infamous Frost Pep Talks again, Lehnsherr?! Don't tempt me! You know I can dish it out with the best of them!"

"I'm fine, Emma, really. The whole thing with Sebastian is ancient history. I meant it when I said it didn't bother me. I had been expecting it, the man's a low-life, after all, it was just a matter of time, he probably needed the money."

"Well you're clearly not fine. What's got you in such a funk?"

\----

Erik couldn't tell you now what it was about how he was feeling that day, or what it was that Emma said that made him spew out his state of mind concerning Charles. The whole story, right up to and including the unreturned emails post-Sebastian-gate. But that's what he did.

To Emma.

Emma. Who didn't pull her punches, who could give it out with the best of them.

Of course he got the Emma Treatment. Again.

"Just send him some fucking flowers Erik, a great big pile of disgustingly indulgent chocolates, poems confessing your love for him wrapped up in pink tissue paper, fluffy bunnies, giant teddies, anything! There's more to communication than email, forchrissakes! Good G-d! Do you even know if he got the emails?! They were from a new account, after all!!"

And that's when the idea hit him.


	21. In which Charles receives a surprise and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sorry (well maybe not really!) for the agony this appears to be putting you guys through!
> 
> We really are nearing the end now, I hope you continue to enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
> 
> I will be writing another couple of fics at least after this. Apparently once the plot bunny rears its head, it doesn't want to disappear.
> 
> If you feel like saying 'Hi' I'd love to hear from you. I'm Leafeylocket over on Tumblr.
> 
> x

Trust Scott to reappear in Charles life at the most unhelpful moment. The man has spectacular timing.

\----

Charles had spent the run-up to and the first weeks of term in a haze of conflicting emotions. He'd become something of a _persona non grata_ amongst all those but his closest friends prone, as he was to unpredictable mood swings, snapping at the most innocent of enquiries one minute and over-enthusiastically cheerful at even the most tiresome of colleagues the next.

Darwin had tried his best to offer consolation for Charles' unknown malady and Moira had tried her best to moderate her disapproval, unaware as she was of the reasons behind Charles' personality transplant.

One of those emotions was a tearful anger that bubbled just below the surface, itself an extremely thin veneer of calm at only the best of times. He'd not been too sure if the anger was directed inwardly for the utter flight of fancy that was entertaining the idea of an actual relationship emerging from whatever-it-was-that-I-had- _via-bloody-email-_ with-Erik- _sodding_ -Lehnsherr or towards Erik himself for doing such a callous disappearing act right at the minute Charles would have thought he needed a friend the most. It made no odds either way though, changing nothing but saving to reinforce Charles' despondency.

Charles was trustworthy. More than that. He could hide the Crown Jewels under his bed and you'd never find them, let alone find out from him that they were there. That thought was almost enough to make him chuckle- there was certainly no fear of anyone else finding them under his bed either!

And he was friendly. More than that. He knew he could be effusive, effervescent, sometimes slightly over-enthusiastic. But he knew when to stop, most of the time. He was genuine, he liked people and tried not to play games. He wore his heart on his sleeve.

He knew that this may not have conveyed itself particularly well over email but it didn't stop him from tying himself up in a knot of _IhatehimnoIhatemyselfnoIhatemyselfforhatinghimIhatemylife_ every time he tried to work out if he could have done some different or something more that would have meant Erik didn't break off contact with him.

He'd also written a list, as he was occasionally wont to do, in a vain attempt to exorcise his diverse thoughts or at least try to rationalise with himself through them:

1\. Erik has more important things to worry about, namely:

a. His reputation has been dragged through the mud by someone he may or may not know, presumably for vengeance, a quick buck, or both

b. He was due to start his first ever Broadway run at more or less the same time which would have been stressful on its own

c. An upcoming promotional tour (he knew because Erik told him. Back. When. He. Was. Actually. Talking. To. Charles.) that would be as intensive as it was long because of the Oscar buzz around his latest film that he'd now have to spend presumably some of fielding off questions about his love life. Charles would hate that. Erik would definitely hate that.

2\. Erik and Charles had been _emailing_. NOTHING MORE.

3\. Charles had shared that he liked Erik. Erik had not responded in kind.

4\. Erik had simply been polite and friendly and his usual charming, sarcastic, self-deprecating, dry, wry self.

5\. Erik probably had people far more suited - or qualified - to lend an ear, hand or their bed to help him through a tough time.

6\. Erik is _entitled_ to not speak to Charles if he doesn't want to. If this means he doesn't trust Charles, it is just a sign that Charles had misread their situation - and the subtleties of Erik's emails - and he's best off out of it.

7\. Erik is probably so busy he hasn't had time to notice his emails are down.

8\. Maybe Erik is embarrassed. Charles hopes not. He is the last person who would ever judge anyone based on a tabloid  story. Least of all Erik. Wonderful Erik.

9\. Just because Raven and Irene had sensed there was something more, doesn't mean they are always right. Despite previous experience to the contrary.

Charles wasn't sure of the last four, in particular. Raven and Irene wouldn't be pleased either. They were _always_ right.

\----

He'd opened the door to be met with six of the biggest bouquets of the most gorgeous blue and lilac flowers he'd ever seen. He didn't know that blue flowers came in such varieties.

 _Who would send_ six _bouquets?!_

_This must be some kind of joke! Right now, right now?! At the very moment when I've found out that Erik must have been going through the most almighty shit over the past week?! Now I get sent flowers?!_

Charles had settled the bouquet on his dining table, the whole room looking like Kew Gardens and smelling just as fragrant, his mind constantly on thoughts of Erik. It wasn't fair that he was being sent flowers - presumably intended to make him happy, when Erik would be far from it. He just wished, fervently, that he could tell the man how annoyed on his behalf he was, how incensed he was. How angry.

Erik was one of the most genuine men he'd ever met, irrespective of the persona the media was setting out to create or the one that Erik projected to help keep his life private. Just because he was self-reliant didn't mean he deserved to be taught a lesson for not sharing his life with the media at large.

He knew the flowers couldn't be _from_ Erik. Quite aside from the shit currently going down in his life, tabloid bollocks though it was, the man didn't know where Charles lived.

It didn't stop Charles wishing though. For a split second, a glorious one, he imagined they _might_ be from Erik.

Determined to stop the thought before it took hold, his heart already thumping in its easy betrayal, Charles hunted out a card in amongst the ample blooms. Snatching it up with a victorious 'Aha!' after scouring around five of the bouquets, taking care to not knock anything, he hurriedly read the message:

_Charles_

_I don't want to continue to live my life without you in it_

_xxxxxx_

Charles blushed. He couldn't help it. Irrespective of who the flowers were from. Completely flattered. No one had ever done something this romantic for him before. Ever.

And it was romantic. So romantic. _Ugh_.

He shook his head, trying to knock free some sense in his muddled brain. He'd gone from utter astonishment, incredulity and anger at the story Raven had sent him to embarrassingly flustered in a matter of minutes. It was disconcerting.

Charles didn't know what to do, torn between raging vengefully at the tabloid press and investigating the mystery that had just presented itself at his door and was now imbuing his entire house with its sweet floral scent.

There was a London telephone number at the bottom of the card.

Charles flipped it over, searching for a signature. The other side of the card was completely blank. Whoever sent such glorious flowers either truly wanted to be anonymous or figured Charles would know who they were from.

He groaned when he realised the only person who could actually be responsible. It was hard to imagine the man putting so much thought into flowers but, Charles reasoned, he could have had help. After all, it was a florist's job.

More relevant, he knew where Charles lived so would have easily been able to direct the flowers to him.

Slouching into a dining chair, face brushing the leaves on one bouquet, he sighed, simultaneously flattered and chagrined. He'd much rather have no flowers than them come from Scott, as ungrateful as that may seem.

If only they could have come from Erik. They were so beautiful. He couldn't fail to enjoy them but the enjoyment would be bittersweet.

Charles didn't want to continue to live his life without _Erik_ in it.

\----

Scott had moved to London for the year, the university board only too willing to accept his request for a sabbatical when they heard that he was going to be directing a new London theatre production. The esteem that came from a faculty member having success - if such success came, Charles thought unapologetically if somewhat unfairly - would far outstrip the inconvenience of recruiting a temporary replacement.

It would explain the London number in neat script at the bottom of the message, clearly intended to be so legible that it couldn't possibly be misread. It would also explain why Scott simply hadn't knocked on Charles' door himself and asked him out again. Maybe Scott had been relying on distance making the heart grow fonder.

It did, Charles knew, but his heart didn't pine for Scott, even if the man's tenacity had reached new levels.

\----

Charles toys with the card at times over the next couple of days, trying to decide whether to call or not.

It seems impolite to not thank the man for his gift but, at the same time Charles does not want to give the wrong impression. Especially about something so intentionally romantic. He'd been glad that Scott had moved away, it would afford him a respite from his attentions at work. He was magnanimous enough to wish Scott success, but that was all.

In the end, the decision made itself for him as he got swept up in preparation for the new term and in obsessing over why he continued not to hear from Erik.

\----

Flowers or no flowers, card or no card, he couldn't stop thinking about Erik, about what the man must be going through. The only thing worse than your private life being splashed all over the papers must be lies about your private life. Charles could not - and would not - believe the utter tripe that the paper was spewing out as newsworthy. This was why he didn't really pay attention to the media.

Charles all too frequently feels frustrated at his powerlessness. The predictable pang of anger-tinged hurt follows soon thereafter. The feeling is familiar, accompanying thoughts of Erik. The disappearance of The World's Most Attractive Man who had almost imperceptibly become The World's-Most-Right-Man-For-Charles a source of constant regret to Charles.

\----

The tearful anger reached a head some four weeks into term. He didn't even need Raven and Irene to talk things through with him this time. He was sure their optimism had run its course. This time they wouldn't be proven right. He'd given it his best shot but it seemed it was through. Erik wasn't coming back into his life. His heart still upped its pace every time he checked his email, but it was always disappointed.

The list had helped somewhat, but Charles still didn't have himself convinced. Maybe he'd never know why Erik vanished from the corner of Charles' life he'd thoroughly, if inadvertently, made his own, but Charles would have to find a way to get over it.

The thought of romance with anyone else turned his stomach, even sex at the minute seemed out of the question, wrapped up in Erik as he was, but the man was gone.

How ironic that it took flowers from another man to help Charles realise it.

Maybe as distance made the heart grow fonder, time would make the heart ache less fervently. It was time he accepted long distance relationships, whoever they are with, whatever their nature, maybe just aren't workable.


	22. In which Erik wears a buttonhole. And makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness!
> 
> Sorry if this is trying people's patience, or nerves!
> 
> Nearly done, give me another couple of days!

Erik hadn't felt nerves like those he had as he boarded his flight from Sydney to London since his earliest auditions. He had a long flight ahead of him but even the knowledge that there were at least 24 hours before he'd be back on the same land mass as Charles Xavier couldn't assuage the butterflies that fluttered about his stomach.

He knew it was silly to feel this way, even now, weeks since he'd heard from the man and slightly fewer weeks since he'd made his wavering resolution to try to forget all about Charles Xavier.

He wasn't naive enough to believe he could simply switch off whatever it was he felt for Charles, but he was a realist enough to know that no good could come of desperate pining.

He'd just hope the 70-page-long tome awaiting his attention in his hand luggage was more captivating than thoughts of a certain Professor X's blue eyes. You could be a realist _and_ a dreamer, couldn't you?

\----

Emma hadn't been kidding when she'd said the promotional tour was an intensive one.

Erik estimated he'd spent almost as long on planes and in airports as he had on land in the past month. And whilst seemingly endless premieres, interviews, appearances and photocalls were all just a part of the job, Erik had formed a new appreciation for the distraction of work-eat-sleep-travel-eat-sleep-work.

To his surprise - and relief, not many people wanted to ask about the Sebastian article. Whether that was down to the sleaziness of the article, Erik's previous character in the media, ambivalence to his personal life or Emma's handling of the situation he did not know. He suspected it was all of the above with particular emphasis on the last.

In fact, the only truly nasty experience had come on the day of the LA premiere. Another chancer had wormed his way out of the woodwork, this time choosing to cast aspersions on Erik's ability to be romantic, of all things.

The slightly odd piece was, of course, published by an LA paper, excelling at Hollywood-centric hyperbole as only LA can.

To be fair, they hadn't just fabricated the story, which Erik wouldn't put past them, but instead had given a few column inches to an extremely old flame, someone Erik had met and hit it off with at an audition years ago. They'd dated for a few weeks, slept together a handful of times. It was ok, nothing more. Not a passion to set the world alight.

Apparently this was enough to qualify the man to comment on Erik's romantic nature. And this was, according to him at least, non-existent. _Wouldn't know romance if it bit him on the backside_. Such an original phrase. No small wonder the last thing Erik had seen the man in was a toothpaste commercial.

Erik had read the article in his hotel room after he finished dressing for the world premiere of _Like Ships In The Nigh_ t. He wouldn't be able to explain it to you now, but in a fit of pique and _I'll-show-you-romance_ Erik had plucked a few Forget-Me-Nots from the arrangement on his dresser and tucked them into his buttonhole.

He'd deny it to his grave, but he might have just chosen them over any of the other flowers as he knew they'd been in the bouquet he'd sent to Charles.

\----

That fact was not lost on Emma, seemingly preternatural in her ability to know when to be in the same city as Erik when something interesting happened.

She'd laughed long and hard at Erik in the hotel bar to where they'd escaped after Erik briefly showed his face at the after-party. A handful of _aren't-we-so-pally_ photos with Remy and James and a shot of him grinning wildly in front of the sponsor's hoarding enough to satisfy that particular night's commitments.

"Like you give two craps whether you're thought of as romantic!"

Erik shot Emma a look as icy as her name.

"If anyone asks I can simply say it's to highlight the romantic element of the film!"

"Ha, pathetic! Lehnsherr, you do know how to make a girl laugh! I'm sure you just be ok at romance really!"

_It just takes the right person..._

"Come to think of it, I think you should wear the buttonhole for all the promo stuff - or the premieres, at least! It'll be good to get people talking."

She'd been good to her word and Erik continued to find a Forget-Me-Not buttonhole ready and waiting in all his hotel rooms.

Emma had become a good friend since he'd spilled out the history of _ErikandCharles_ , despite her persistent teasing. Whilst he wouldn't tell her that before hell froze over, Erik was glad of it. Charles had at the very least been a friend and he'd realised how much he missed having one since his sudden disappearance at the time of the Sebastian story.

Emma had gone so far as to offer possible reasons for Charles' absence. They'd ranged from the downright cruel - "Maybe he realised how _dull_ you actually are for a film star!" - to the consoling - "Maybe he wanted to give you space after the whole Sebastian thing."

When Erik countered that it wasn't really a _thing_ \- that the press that mattered hadn't really put any stock in the envy-tinged words of a lover 'spurned' a decade ago - Emma had simply suggested that maybe Charles didn't want to be involved with someone in the public eye.

That had hit home, ringing true in a way none of the scenarios Erik had previously considered had done. It seemed a real possibility and one that Erik really couldn't argue with. He knew of Charles' disdain for the media in general - the man did everything he could to avoid it.

Erik wouldn't really be surprised if Charles hadn't even seen the story, although that brought up the question of if not the Sebastian story then what _had_ caused Charles to cut off communication with Erik? His brain hurt thinking about it.

\----

His heart hurt too.

He'd thought the flowers and the long email he'd sent after the rushed first one from his new account would reassure Charles that there was no credence to what Sebastian had said, that Erik was ok, that the email change was a necessary evil after the amateur hack-job but nothing to worry about, that he didn't think they'd do anything to Charles, even if they did know about him.

Apparently not.

\----

He'd worried after he'd heard nothing from Charles in response. It had taken all his willpower to leave things completely alone for a few agonising days, berating himself for the words he'd chosen for the card and finalised before he could think better of it. The words were true, Sebastian's story and Charles' initial silence prompting Erik to the realisation that whatever he currently had with Charles it was completely different to what he'd had with Sebastian. It was completely right where everything with Sebastian had been so so wrong.

He'd known then, deep in his gut, that Charles could be the one, was everything Erik had ever wanted, not known to even dream of. He hadn't realised it would be possible for him to feel this way before Charles.

Then he'd started to really dissect it. Re-reading every single one of Charles' numerous emails, seeking something he'd missed, something that suggested Charles wouldn't at least let him down gently. He'd thought back to one of Charles' very first emails - the one where he'd said he _liked_ Erik. He'd not read too much into it at the time and still didn't, but he'd thought the man would at least do him the courtesy of responding - one friend to another. In fact, Erik still considered it out of character that Charles hadn't done so. If he weren't trying to curb his wishful thinking, he'd wonder whether Charles even knew the flowers were from him.

\----

Stepping off the plane, lethargic and in need of a shower, Erik had steeled himself for the final leg of the _Like Ships In The Night_ promotional juggernaut - Europe. He was dreading it, memories of Charles sure to haunt him in Britain, at the very least.

Was it even necessary to get over a relationship that had been played out almost exclusively over email? Even though it felt more real to Erik than any other relationship he'd had? Was it possible to fall in love online? Did Erik really have to get over the man he was starting to realise could be the love of his life?


	23. In which Charles works and speaks to Raven.

To say Charles had thrown himself into his work would be an understatement. He'd fired himself headfirst into a whirlwind of prep-seminar-lecture-marking-lab-time-consider-eating-write-up-sleep practically guaranteed to land him, exhausted and babbling, in his sick bed before too long but which, in the meantime, distracted him just enough from Erik Lehnsherr that he could present himself to the outside world as a functioning human being. Never mind that inside he was crying like a six-year-old.

It hadn't taken long for Raven and Irene to cotton on, his mysterious silence full-stop, not just on the subject of Erik, a clear indication to their female intuition that Charles was not happy, hiding something, or both. He just didn't have the heart to argue when they suggested he should phone the telephone number on the card.

"You never know, it could just be Prince Charming..."

"It's Scott, Raven."

"But do you actually _know_ that?"

"Well I know what he's like! And who else could it be?!"

"Maybe you have a secret admirer!"

"I don't _want_ a secret admirer!"

"What about Erik?"

"He's not secret!"

"Aha! So you _do_ think he could be an admirer then?!"

"No, stop it Raven, that not what I meant!" _It's only what I dreamed...._

"Seems to me that knowing who this telephone number this is for once and for all would be a good idea!"

"No. I don't want to encourage Scott."

"Even if it _is_ him..."

"It is, Raven."

"Even _if_ it is, you can just thank him for the flowers and make clear you don't feel the same way!"

"But I don't _want_ to Raven!" Charles was pouting now.

"Charles!" Irene chimed in.

"Seriously, call the number. If you don't, neither you nor I will hear the end of it! I wouldn't put it past her to fly home to hold the phone to your ear to make sure you go through with it! Have some mercy man, please. For both our sakes!"

It was true. Raven had form for flying home at the drop of a hat if she thought Charles needed a kick up the backside. Not for the first time he wished he didn't have so many qualms with dipping into his trust fund, unlike Raven, who was buried up to her elbows. Then he could just disappear and try to forget about this whole thing.

"Ok, ok. I'll do it. I'm not even sure if I kept the card..."

"Charles!" Raven again. "Pull your finger out of that hoarder arse of yours and locate the card. There's no way you'd have thrown out something that romantic, regardless of who the sender is!"

Damn sisters and how well they know you. His silence betrayed him.

"Call me back when you're done!"

\----

He'd done as he was asked - told - figuring 8pm on a weekday might not see Scott at home. He could hope. He'd assumed it must be a home number, what with it being a land line. Strange, really, mobiles being as prevalent as they were, even Scott, to Charles' knowledge, hadn't found an objection to them.

Charles was only a little bit surprised, then, when the line had connected to the sounds of a voicemail clicking in.

"You've reached the office of Frost Agencies. Unfortunately we are currently closed. Please feel free to leave a message or call back between our working hours of between 8am and 7pm, Monday to Saturday...."

Charles had blinked, startled, before hanging up. He knew that Scott could be odd, overly formal at times, but this was a new low, even for him. Leaving the number of your agent in your flowers?! What on Earth??

Any number of reasons for it existed, Charles knew, making sure he didn't miss a call, making sure he wasn't hassled whilst at work.... All perfectly reasonable. To be honest, it was a good outcome. This way, Charles had tried - Raven had said nothing about actually speaking to someone, just calling the number. He had done that. Bargain upheld.

Wow his sister had him wrapped around her little finger; he winced when he thought of her reaction to him trying to get off on a technicality.

\----

He'd got her response right, but Raven's softer side made an appearance.

"Alright, brother dearest, I'll let you off this time! Just promise me you'll make an effort to cheer up, yeah? Irene and I will be more _incommunicado_ than usual over the next few weeks so I won't be able to give you my normal pep talks."

Charles didn't know what to say to that.

"Yay?" his voice was weak and unenthusiastic. Sarcastic. He knew it. So did Raven.

"Anyway... I can rise above your piss-poor attempt at wit to inform you that I've already emailed Darwin and Moira and recruited them to the side of Team Charles Xavier Is Better Than This."

"Raven!" It was a cross between a gasp and a whine.

"Don't worry, I haven't revealed the Hollywood-actor-shaped hole in your heart that seems to be the cause of your current melancholia. As far as they know it's routine boy trouble all the way for you!"

"I feel so much better now, Raven."

"You can thank me when you see me. Maybe you'll have even got laid or - shock horror - have met someone when I return to Britain's sunny shores!"

"Don't hold your breath."

"Love you, brother-of-mine!"

"Bye, Raven."

"Bye Charles!"

"Take care, Irene!"

Charles chuckled. Irrespective of the subject matter, Charles could rely on his sister to bring a smile to his face. Even if only for a few minutes.


	24. In which Erik does press.

All things considered, Erik's time in London was going far better than he had anticipated.

It wasn't like he was doing anything unusual on this promotional visit; the work was fine. He was just worried about thinking too much about Charles, about being tempted into doing something stupid like racing over to Oxford and bursting into a lecture theatre, confessions of undying love falling on deaf ears.

To be fair, that potential ending of the fantasy would probably have been enough to prohibit Erik from going through with it, but it turned out he was far too busy to even contemplate getting further than the M25.

\----

He had probably spoken too soon.

He'd got through five days of press interviews, photo shoots - only two where he'd had to play nice with James and Remy - the premiere and when he moved on to filming the BBC's flagship chat show. 

He knew things had probably been going a little too well.

It had been an experience.

\----

"Emma."

"What is it, Erik? I'm busy - it's lunchtime over here, or had you forgotten? I have a meeting."

"Can you blame me, Emma? I've been away for so long I have no idea what time it is anywhere!"

"Oh boohoo, the big film star is annoyed at his promotional work."

Erik can't be bothered to argue, after all, Emma could just hold a mirror up to him when it comes to sarcasm.

"What do you want, Erik?"

"How much did you know about the TV interviews I'm doing?"

"Well there are only three. One with breakfast television - pre-recorded of course, I thought you'd already done that one?"

"Yes, I have, and the one with the Film programme."

"That just leaves the BBC's late night Friday chat show then. Gets high ratings, Erik, I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Not from where I'm standing."

"What? Why? Is there something wrong?"

"Why didn't you tell me this thing with the flowers was getting out of hand?"

Erik's currently fiddling with one of said buttonholes, grimacing at his reflection in the backlit dressing room mirror. His grey three-piece suit does look good accessorised with the blue shirt, navy tie and the cluster of tiny blooms.

"What are you talking about, Erik?"

"So, one of the associate producers just breezed into my dressing room to go over the order of things and - innocent as the day is long - pulls out a portfolio of photographs. Of me. Wearing the bloody flowers. The whole interview is built around it!"

"Ha! Oh, Sugar, you've got to admit, that's fabulous!"

"How is it fabulous, Emma? Please enlighten me." He's gritting his teeth now.

"Well I did say it'd be good publicity, darling."

Damn Emma and her pet names and her being right.

"Yes. But I hadn't expected to get the third degree about it! What am I supposed to say?"

"How about 'I tell myself I'm wearing it to prove how romantic I am to an old ex-fling on the make but really it's because I want to pine over Professor Charles Xavier for the rest of my life?"

"But, whah...Huh? How do you know?" He winced as he said it. Trust Emma to see right through him.

"Well, it was my advice. And your accountant phoned. Wanted to know whether he could write them off as a business expense."

"I hope you told him 'No'"

"What, and deprive Prince Pining of the opportunity to lecture me on how Charles Xavier is _personal,_ Emma, nothing to do with work, Emma. He could be the real thing, _Emma_?!!"

"Alright, Emma, point taken. Still, what do I do in the interview?"

"Well I'll give this to Charles Xavier. At least you're not considering walking out. There was a time when you would have done."

"Yes, Emma. There was also a time when I wouldn't have worn buttonholes, but a certain agent who used to be my friend quite explicitly suggested - to the point of ordering the flowers to my room, I might add - that I should wear them, it's only fair said agent should have a suggestion of how to handle the fall-out. When you said 'good publicity' I wasn't expecting this _ambush_!"

"Calm down, Sugar and listen to Auntie Emma...."

\----

Quite how he'd made it through the interview without blushing continuously, Erik didn't think he would ever know. Certainly the dry martini he'd been furnished with had helped. It'd also explain any flush that made its way through the make-up they plastered him in.

At least they hadn't asked him about Remy. Erik wondered if Emma had vetoed it.

And now, as his taxi whisked him back to his hotel, he had only one more day one radio interview to get through then he would be on a plane to Greece. To filming. To forgetting all about Britain, buttonholes and Charles Xavier.

\----

He wished he could blame it on a hangover, but he hadn't touched a drop the night before.

He'd just blame it on the early hour instead. 11am was early, right?

\----

He wanted to curse Emma but he knew that she couldn't control everything. Even if she had vetoed a discussion topic, it didn't necessarily prevent a rogue interviewer from asking it anyway.

It was just Erik's luck that the interviewer who decided to ask did so on live radio.

\----

"We're joined on _London 102_ by Erik Lehnsherr, star of soon-to-be-released Oscar-contender _Like Ships In The Night_. Good morning Erik!"

"Good morning, Victor."

"So, let's gown to the important stuff, shall we? Is it true that you and Remy LeBeau fell for each other during this film? The flowers and red-carpet hugs have not gone unnoticed, you know! Just this morning, you're featured on the Hot or Not page of _Flashbulb_ magazine."

Erik glances at the publication, before looking daggers at the man. There's a glossy image of him and Remy, arms around each others' waists, heads turned to one another in smiles. Whatever photographer took it got lucky that an editor with a penchante for embellishing - _inventing_ \- stories spied his snaps.

It was easy to see how you could do so - they _did_ look more than friendly, if he was honest - but it was all for the cameras, part of the job. They couldn't have stood there like that for more than 10 seconds, of course that's the photo that would be chosen.

Erik thinks back to Emma's tutelage for scenarios just like this.

_Deflect, darling, deflect._

Erik squirmed, hoping what he was going to say would be sufficiently vague to satisfy the interviewer into moving on.

"It's true I did develop feelings for someone during the period of filming but I'm not going to say anything more than that."

There. Let the press do their worst. It wasn't a lie, after all.


	25. In which Charles cries.

Charles was really regretting his dinner last night with Darwin and Alex.

Not because he'd caught up with his friend, or because he'd finally gotten around to meeting the man who was making Darwin happier than Charles had ever seen him. Charles would never regret that.

It wasn't even because he was doing as Raven had asked and was getting out, enjoying himself, as much as he could while he still thought about Erik- _what-could-have-been-_ Lehnsherr pretty much continuously if he didn't have something at least halfway interesting to focus on.

No, it was because it meant he'd been in a _sodding_ taxi, driver listening to sodding _London 102_ at _sodding_ 11am. That's why.

\----

He'd been _en route_ to a conference. One he actually had to present at.

If he'd gone straight into London from Oxford this morning, he would have been able to get the tube, avoiding the taxi and the _radio_ altogether. But no, Charles was trying to make an effort, to see his friends, get on with life.

And then life decides to throw _this shit_ his way. Thanks very much, life.

Just sitting in a taxi, minding his own business and Erik Lehnsherr comes on the radio.

\----

Charles had stumbled through the conference that day, thankful that he was only presenting preliminary results, the details of which he had helpfully written up in preparation for their publishing. He can't imagine it was the most electrifying of presentations but then again he doesn't care. Most of the audience was only there for the keynote speaker and those who weren't were so old or so pompous or both that whatever a young _whippersnapper_ like Charles had to say wasn't high on their agendas.

He's sure he got away with it, it was a blessing that he couldn't remember it all, really.

\----

He'd only made one stop on the way back to the hotel, thanking his lucky stars that he didn't have to endure the journey back to Oxford that night and could instead hole himself up in his hotel room with his newly-purchased Cherry Garcia, generous bar of Dairy Milk and room-service milky tea.

And that's exactly where he found himself, bundled up in the duvet, steadily working through the hotel's supply of tissues. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy and his throat hoarse from sobbing.

It felt appropriate and not in the least self-indulgent, thank you very much. He had his coping mechanisms and he was going to use them.

He thought it was a step up from fried egg and mayonnaise sandwiches. Although he hadn't ruled out testing the willingness of the hotel's kitchen.

\----

It was a perfectly reasonable way to act when one's heart is breaking, after all.

Not that his was. Surely not, he'd only met the man in person _once_.

He was happy that Erik had found happiness with Remy, could even admire the way he'd tried to keep his private life private when accosted by the DJ.

Of all the times for the press to be right, though, it would be concerning Erik Lehnsherr.

Raven would _definitely_ have something to say about that. But she was currently miles away. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

He had a taller one to climb himself at the moment; Erik Lehnsherr was in London. The perfect wonder of a man, the man Charles wants in his life, was so near yet has never been further away.


	26. In which Erik travels to the airport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all.
> 
> So I namedrop 'The Song of Achilles' here again.
> 
> I claim no rights, but figured I'd have Erik star in the adaptation of one of my favourite books. It's by Madeline Miller, you should read it :) Be careful, though, you might cry!
> 
> Just imagine a slightly less smug Stelios! Erik's supposed to be in his late twenties in this so I figure he'd pass as Achilles....

Erik should have been thankful of the rest being ferried about by taxi afforded him, he had a busy shoot ahead of him.

He had been looking forward to _The Song of Achilles_ since he'd read the book, let alone seen a script. As soon as Emma had mentioned that he was being considered for the lead role, the producers impressed by his turn in For Sparta, complete with loincloth, he'd asked her to ensure that nothing got in the way of his taking the part. He was flattered enough that they didn't want him to audition, but the fact that they saw him as Achilles when the part was so fantastic, true to the book if nothing else, was the icing on the cake.

But as he settled into the leather seat, gazing into the middle distance as London's recognisable skyline faded into more generic suburbia, his thoughts strayed to the interviews he'd endured over the past two days.

\----

It had all been going so well, interviewers as interested in the film and what Erik had to say about it as he could hope for - more than could be expected, all things considered.

And then the _Niall Morecambe Show_ with its informal atmosphere and unscrupulous producers had come along and highlighted the Forget-Me-Nots he'd worn in his buttonhole throughout the portion all tour. Erik knew he shouldn't be surprised, not when Emma had spelled out from the outset how good the enigmatic aspect would be good for business.

Erik wasn't sure it was this that had led to his adoption of the symbol quite so much as the metaphorical two-fingered salute to those who believed him uninteresting, cold or stand-offish when all he was was private.

He'd known he might get asked questions, had been prepared to deflect them, keep up the air of mystery. He just hadn't expected the Inquisition complete with full colour photographs.

\----

Emma had been her usual unflabbable self, entreating him to remain calm as he became increasingly unnerved that he'd let something slip about Charles.

It was one thing for the man to avoid the press in general, but Erik doubted even his capacity to do so if Erik accidentally name-dropped him on national television.

Something told him it wasn't the best way to get over the man's rejection of him either.

She'd just calmly told him to be coy - like Erik had ever been coy in his _life_?

"Well, just be all serious then! Tell them - in your best _don't-fuck-with-me voice_ \- that it's personal, has personal sentiment. That'll shut them up."

\----

He'd almost managed it. But almost, not quite.

He didn't think it was too obvious. In fact, it was vague enough that if he tried hard enough, he could practically convince himself it was nothing to do with Charles.

"They have, significance, yes. Not so much to the film although it's coincided with it, but for me personally. I sent some to someone special, who I met just recently, we'd become close."

Fortunately, Niall had chimed in with an 'ooooooh' before diplomatically moving on to another guest. Thank goodness the BBC didn't go about digging too much into people's private lives.

\----

There was no point in worrying about it now, though, it was done.

There was also no point in daydreaming about Charles somehow seeing the interview, then rushing to the airport, having tracked Erik down - maybe he would call Emma's agency, introduce himself, finally set in motion the chain of events Erik had intended when he'd put that number on the card with the flowers - before calling out Erik's name as he ran across the airport, frantically pushing past crowds to reach Erik before he disappeared through Security.....

No, he had to stop daydreaming. It was never going to happen.

And anyway, Erik had a film to make.


	27. In which Charles makes a discovery.

Time has a numbing effect, Charles finds. He doesn't feel less so much as not feel anything at all.

It works for him. He just tries not to wonder how long it'll last before something seeps through his defences, creeps back in. Makes him feel again. Ugh.

Needless to say, Scotch has helped, although Charles hasn't self-medicated quite as much as one might be forgiven for thinking.

He hadn't realised quite how much work you could get done with nothing so trivial as a social life to get in your way. His work rate was prolific and this, in turn, only made him busier: articles, conferences, peer reviews. He was even managing to engage with the subject matter, not simply sleepwalk through life as he had done that time in London. The conference after the radio show that Charles does NOT think about.

\----

It's why it's so disconcerting when his phone rings late one Thursday evening. It's impressive he's even at home, considering how he's spent at least the last four Thursday evenings deeply ensconced in lab work.

Of course it's Raven. She's still in South America, has been since before the whole abortive _phone the number_ debacle.

She's nearly hysterical.

"Is it you?! It's you, isn't it?! It all makes sense! You got flowers! You didn't say what they were but, then again, it'd be just like you to keep something like this a secret! Say _something_ Charles!!"

"Raven, I couldn't get a word in edgeways! What are you talking about?!"

"Erik! That's what!"

"Raven, I'm over him." _Lies. Damn lies._

"Anyway, he's obviously got someone else... I heard on the radio...."

"Seriously Charles! The dinner, the fact that you met just recently.... The time period! It is you, isn't it?!"

"Huh?"

"Have you even _seen_ the interview?!"

"What interview, Raven? What are you talking about? I heard a radio interview, he said he'd _developed feelings_ for someone and _I_ spent the evening with Ben  & Jerry. What of it?"

"Oh Charles, you are silly. You should have called us."

Trust Irene to be sympathetic.

Scrabbling was heard at the other end of the line, some grunts and squabbling as Raven wrestled control of the phone back from her wife.

"Quite aside from the fact that you deliberately disobeyed orders with your frankly ridiculous moping, I don't actually think there was any reason for it!"

"Raven. You're talking in riddles. What are you going on about?!"

"I take it you haven't seen the _Niall Morecambe Show_ that Erik was a guest on?"

"No I haven't see any TV shows featuring Erik _Lehnsherr_."

Charles was beginning to realise the importance a little less familiarity could have when it came to healing one's heart.

"And to be honest, I think it's best I don't see the man in any manner. I may not be responsible for my actions thereafter. There aren't enough tissues. For my eyes. My _eyes_!"

Raven could always be relied upon to make the most of any inadvertent innuendo.

"Oooh er missus! Well I think it's in your best interests to watch this one. There's a link in your inbox. Watch it, peruse the photos too. You have ten minutes until I call back. Watch it or - so help me Charles Francis Xavier - I _will_ get on a plane and force you to, no matter how long or expensive the flight!"

And with that she hung up. No time for arguing with Raven when she's set her mind to something, irrespective of whether it's even something to do with _her_.

Sighing, but ever so slightly intrigued and - not that he'd ever admit it - a little excited for a glimpse of Erik, Charles switches to his inbox on his phone.

True to her word, Raven has sent an email. The first link appears to be to YouTube. Figuring it must be the TV show, Charles clicks it.

There's Erik, in full high definition, looking _drop-dead_ gorgeous - _no great surprise there, Charles_ \- grey three piece suit, blue shirt, darker tie and buttonhole. Of Forget-Me-Nots.

Dismissing it as coincidence, Charles clicks play.

"So Erik. Welcome back, thanks for coming to see us again."

Erik smiles that kilowatt grin so often seen on the red carpet.

"Thank you for having me, Niall. I love being in Britain, even if fleetingly. The people here are lovely, so friendly."

"Well yes, they certainly looked friendly on the red carpet at the premiere of your new film, _Like Ships In The Night_ this week. Did you enjoy it?"

"It was great, even if the Great British Weather graced us with her most precipitous presence!"

"Yes the photos do show a plethora of umbrellas.... They also show a certain posy attached to your suit which I also notice features in your outfit tonight.... Do the Forget-Me-Nots have a significance?"

"They have, significance, yes. Not so much to the film although it's coincided with it, but for me personally. I sent some to someone special, who I met just recently, we'd become close."

Charles stops, still as prey caught in its predator's sights, afraid of the slightest movement. It's as though if he moves, an illusion will shatter, reality flooding back in. He's blind, deaf to the remainder of the clip, irrespective of its subject, reeling from the possibility.

 _Could_ it be _him_?

The flowers were from Scott. Weren't they?

Charles casts his mind back....They were sent at the same time he couldn't get hold of Erik via email, when he'd wanted to offer his support in the wake of the Shaw story. Would Erik have found the time to send Charles _flowers_ when he was dealing with crap of his own? What about the thing with Remy LeBeau? Surely the comments could equally refer to him?

He was startled by the chirp of his phone ringing.

Raven, of course.

_Quickest ten minutes of my life....._

"Raven. Ugh."

It's all he can manage, his shaking voice barely above a whisper.

"I can't believe you're so _oblivious_ sometimes Charles! This was shown _almost two months ago_! The media has been all over it and you've got your head stuck in a book. Or a test tube. Whatever. I'm in _South America_ and I've seen it before you! The point is, this is about you, I know it. Listen to this: _The enigmatic Erik Lehnsherr continues to wear Forget-Me-Nots, a ritual he began at the LA premiere of Like Ships In The Night and most recently seen during his appearance on the Niall Morecambe Show. Lehnsherr, 29, refused to be drawn on the identity of the mystery man by the funny man host, leading to speculation on social media about the recipient of what many believe is a highly romantic gesture._.... Sounds to me like someone's got it bad."

Charles somehow finds his voice in time to fire off the questions that have crept into his head.

"No, no. He hasn't just met Remy LeBeau. They presented an award at the same ceremony a few years ago, I knew you'd think that!"

"Maybe he's just doing it for the publicity."

Charles knew it was weak, even as he said it. There's no way Erik - _Lehnsherr_ , he corrected himself - would do something simply to court publicity. Quite the opposite, in fact. Whatever's made him do this, it must be serious.

Raven, apparently, agrees.

"Who are you and what have you done with my brother?! Charles, you _know_ that's bullshit, right?"

He says nothing. Raven ploughs on regardless, in full flow now.

"He's obviously been inspired to great romantic heights by someone. Your flowers were Forget-Me-Nots, weren't they?!"

Charles ignores her - correct - assumption.

"Why didn't he just email then, Raven? It'd worked up to the point when he deleted his account."

"Yes, well, my darling wife has, as ever, been brilliant on this subject. Humour me, OK, Professor Genius Xavier?"

She audibly inhales.

"You did check your Spam Mail after his emails came back undeliverable, didn't you?"

Just as Charles is about to launch into a monologue on how his sister and sister-in-law shouldn't think so lowly of him when he realises that, _yes_ , they really should. He hasn't checked it. He simply hadn't thought about it. He never checked, never needed to. Well, except when he thought Raven was playing a prank. He hadn't done since that particular instance, as a matter of fact.

"OK. So taking your silence as a no, I think you'd better do so, oh brother of mine. Pronto. Get your laptop or your iPad, I'm staying on the line for this."

Charles does as he's told, grateful for once to be told what to do, unsure as he is of his capacity to actually function independently.

Thanking whatever deity it was that proclaimed iPads would boot in next-to-no-time, he opens his email folder, having to move the screen down significantly to get to the Spam box.

Nothing. He tells Raven as much.

"How far back date-wise, have you gone, Charles? I can't imagine he's just blithely continued to email if you ignored him!"

Scrolling back further, he spies it.

 _EML_ is all it bears as evidence of the mailbox from which it's been sent.

_Charles,_

_Sorry if you've already noticed; my old address is out of action now. I've been hacked._

_This is me now, if you've emailed and I've missed anything, I'd love for you to forward them to me. I shall email more again later._

_Yours,_

_Erik_

Charles is stunned. More than stunned, astonished.

"Remind me, Charles, the name of the agency that the number on the card was for...?"

"Er, ah..."

"Was it 'Frost Agencies', by any chance?"

"Y...y..yessss..."

"Well IMDb reliably informs me that they represent one..... Erik Lehnsherr. I rather think they _don't_ represent Scott and that Scott definitely DID NOT send you flowers!  _Geesus_ , Charles, how did you manage to get this so _wrong_?!"

Slowly, the dawning realisation that he may have made a massive mistake, may have actually fucked up the best thing to happen to him...

"Raven...."

For once, his sister is silent. Charles doesn't know whether this is a good thing or not. All he knows is it gives him more time with his own thoughts. _Not a good thing._

Could he go back to feeling numb now, please?

"What have I done?"


	28. In which Erik sends one last email.

_Dear Charles_

_I don't expect you to reply to this. I don't even know if I'm expecting you to read it, if I'm honest._

_I'd really like to say I understand what happened between us, but I'm afraid I don't._

_I apologise if the whole Sebastian Shaw story troubled you. I appreciate not everyone is comfortable with friends in the public eye._

_I respect your decision to distance yourself and would like to thank you for a summer of emails that kept me engaged, intrigued and stimulated._

_If you ever feel like offering theatre critique in the future (and you get this) you know where I am..._

_I am truly sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable as I get the impression I got the wrong idea about what could be between us, but let me say this:_

_I really enjoyed getting to know you and, whilst we've only met once, I feel like I've known you for ever. To be honest I wish I could, literally, know you for ever. For the rest of my life._

_Thank you for your friendship, Charles. I'm sorry we can't be anything more._

_Your friend,_

_Erik_


	29. In which Emma speaks to Charles.

"I can't just email him, Raven. Who knows when he'll get it and it's not like we've really made that work for us, is it?! I need to speak to him _now_. It's been long enough!"

"Trust you Charles! How did you get yourself into this scenario?!! It's ridiculous!!"

"It's not my fault I didn't check my Spam mail. Surely that's the whole point - it's SPAM?!"

"I'd like to know whose fault it _is_ , then...."

Before Charles can get a word in edgewise - even though he's not sure he could really contest this one - Raven continues:

"And the telephone number? How do you explain not calling _that_?"

"I did call that, Raven, if you recall. Under a certain amount of duress, actually. And I got voicemail. For an agency. How was I supposed to know what that was all about?! I was sent flowers not an invitation to audition...!"

"OK, OK, I admit, I'm still a bit miffed by that move. But maybe there was a reason....for....it...."

Her voice tailed off.

"That's it! Phone it again!!"

"Huh?"

"Well, what were they going to do if you'd phoned it when you got the flowers? Now you can find out!!!"

Charles ponders for a second.

"What, huh, oh, yeah, right. Raven.... I think you're the family genius, actually. What time is it?"

"Just before 4pm here. Argentina's three hours behind the UK."

 _Maths. Right_ now?

"Er, right, nearly 7pm. I don't have long."

Charles can barely make sense of the display on his iPad, it's a wonder he's remembered the agency's opening hours. But still.

"Raven, I have to hang up now."

_Good. Progress. You can do this Charles_

"Wait! Hold on! What do I say?!"

"Well, he gave the number out with your flowers. Phone it, introduce yourself and see what they do!!"

_Oh. Right. Yeah. That makes sense. I think._

Charles tells Raven this.

"Just _go_ , big brother!! Do it before you can over-think it. We've got everything crossed. I'm hanging up now. You can thank me later."

And just like that, she's gone. Charles now has to think for himself.

_Crap._

He shakily finds the number in his call log hits dial....

It only takes two rings. Efficiency.

"Frost Agencies, Marie speaking...."

"Hello, this is Charles Xavier, I need to get hold of Erik Lehnsherr."

"Are you a casting director? Member of the press?"

 _Oh shit. Of course they're not going to give out Erik's information. Stupid stupid_ stupid _Charles..._

"No, no I'm not, but I believe he may be trying to contact me."

_You're making so much sense, Charles...._

"Or he did, a few months ago. I've only just got his message."

It was the truth, even if you had to use the less obvious definition of 'got'.

"I'm afraid I can not disclose any information about Mr Lehnsherr, sir"

"Well can you pass a message to him for me? Please?"

He can hear Marie hesitate, thinking maybe? He hopes the plaintive (frankly, desperate) note in his voice is enough to earn her pity.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Xavier. Charles Xavier."

"Hold please."

Charles crosses his fingers that she's just lost her pen or something, that she's not at this very minute arranging to block his number...

"I'm putting you through to Ms. Frost...."

A beat and the line is picked up.

"Well _hello_ , Sugar. So you're the mystery man?"

_What?????_

"Er...Yes?"

_Charles, you have got to get with the program here, you're a big boy, learn some words...._

"Oh, Sugar, how rude of me. I'm Emma. Emma Frost. I'm Erik's agent. And, apparently, his friend. It's the only explanation I can give for doing this..."

"Doing what?"

Apparently that doesn't require a response.

"Well, you took your time, didn't you? Making your mind up?"

Something about this question, slightly teasing, laced with sarcasm but with an undercurrent of what Charles suspects is something akin to protectiveness, reengages Charles' brain.

It's a bit weird, contemplating speaking to someone who isn't Raven or Irene about this thing that's been between him and Erik for well over six months now. But what other choice does Charles have? He needs to speak to Erik. NOW.

"No, no... It's not like that.... It's all a bit....absurd really. You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you...."

"You should try me. There's not a lot I wouldn't believe, working in this business."

Charles takes a deep breath. He's starting to like this woman. Apparently Erik does too.

"Look, I got this number. On a card. With some flowers. I know it is a bit after the fact, but were they from Erik? There was no signature..."

There's a laugh at the other end of the line. Mid-pitched, clear and amused.

"Have a lot of secret admirers, do you?"

"What? No!"

" _Relax_ , Sugar. I'm kidding. Yes they were from Erik. Idiot thought he'd send them anonymously as he was _petrified_ of rejection. Figured this way, if you didn't reciprocate, he wouldn't lose your friendship. Rather pathetic, if you ask me. But I didn't tell you this, OK?"

Charles has become a guppy fish.

Another chuckle.

"Don't tell me I've told you something you don't already know! The man's head-over-heels for you! The only time he's smiled over the past six months is when he's talking about you. And that's saying something. He never smiles."

Silence.

"You seriously didn't know?"

"I need to see him. Now."

This time the laugh is warm. Friendly. 

"It's out of the question, I'm afraid."

Oh.

 _Shit. I'm too late_.

And Charles thought he could like this woman.

"Can't you just do what you were going to do after the flowers were sent?"

Charles is trying not to whine. Or sob.

"That depended upon certain....prerequisites. Those are no longer in place.

Charles isn't sure his attempt to smother a groan succeeds.

"But I'm nothing if not a resourceful woman...."

Charles holds his breath.

"Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow, anything to do?"

"Nothing I can't get out of."

"That's what I like to hear."

Charles' heart is beating out of his chest. He might have forgotten to breathe.

"Well Charles - may I call you Charles? I have a plan...."

If Emma has a plan, she can call Charles whatever she likes.


	30. In which Erik does some thinking.

Greece is nice. Hot. Old. Well, the architecture.

There's a lot to do. Which is good. It's helped Erik keep his mind off things. A bit.

The time's passed quickly, on- and off-set. Even so, Erik finds it hard to believe that he's sitting in a private dining room at the back of a traditional Greek Taverna, celebrating their last full day of filming. Just a few quick pieces of dialogue tomorrow afternoon, an after-party and Erik will be free to return to New York. And three weeks with nothing to do.

He's dreading it.

It's the prospect of nothing but time and his own thoughts that has led Erik here. To the prospect of….well, the prospect of considering someone else.

 ----

 It's ironic, really, that of all the films he's made, the one where his on-screen love-interest might just be a viable option for a shag, even if nothing else, is the one film when Erik's mind has been on anything but casual sex. For the most part. All those films before - _before Charles_ \- and not one of the men he met interested him.

It's just that now, he's at a loss as to how to get over Charles. 

Janos is everything that Charles is not. Dark where Charles is light, silent where Charles is ebullient, gregarious, practically bubbling over with joy at life. It's the contrast that appeals to Erik, physically at least. His mind would have to make a considerable effort to be drawn to thoughts of Charles if he were faced with Janos in his bed. There are no similarities.

It's not that Erik wants to sleep with someone else at all. Far from it. Broad shoulders, firm hands, pale skin and that _arse_ would be more than enough for Erik. Far more. But they're not his. Never can be.

 ----

 They've spent a not-inconsiderable amount of time together, Erik and Janos, off- as well as on-set, which is hardly surprising bearing in mind their characters are so close. And Erik respects Janos' silence. It's undemanding, if un-distracting.

Playing Achilles to his Patroclus has been easy, the script so tight that it leaves nothing to chance. The chemistry is there on the pages and, fortunately, Erik and Janos have been able to translate it onto screen.

He'd never consider Janos if it weren't for Charles. He's not really Erik's type. Not that he had a type, before Charles. But that's precisely why he's appealing. It feels like less of a betrayal to a man that can not be his if he considers sleeping with a man that could never be Charles.

But, he thinks, if nothing else, if he's no longer wound up so tight - thoughts of Charles appearing every time he closes his eyes, wraps his hand around his cock,  -  he might be able to exorcise the images, fantasies of Charles that continue to haunt him. Gorgeous, funny, intelligent, wry, sexy, blue-eyed Charles. The man he's fallen in love with.

If only he wasn't everything Erik never realised he wanted.

 ----

 That's all well and good but Erik hasn't acted on any of these thoughts. Irrespective of his grand plan to get over Charles, he can't quite find it in him to just chuck it all in and _go for it._

Who knew he'd be such a romantic? If the thought weren't so painful, he'd laugh.

 ----

Except tonight. Tonight is their penultimate one in Greece. What with the effects that'll be put in post-production, Erik probably won't have to cross paths with Janos for at least six months or so. More than enough time for any awkwardness to have been forgotten, any nebulous thoughts that it could be something more, easily put to bed - so to speak - by time and distance.

_Just like it should be with Charles, too..._

\----

Erik feels pleasantly buzzed, allowing himself a drink for the first time in a couple of weeks.

Whilst there could certainly have been more battle scenes if the story did not focus so intently on Achilles and Patroclus' emotional relationship, he's certainly wanted to be on top of his game physically. No good being able to pinch an inch when you're supposed to be playing Achilles - _aristos achaion_. You've got to look the part.

The wine is good, but he knows that the manager will tempt him with the local Ouzo before the night is out. It may just be the thing Erik needs to make him take that final step. Dutch courage and all. Maybe it'll dull the sense of betrayal that is pervading Erik's every thought when he considers doing anything with Janos.

But he's only human, he can't hold out forever for Charles, can he?


	31. In which Charles meets Emma.

Had you told Charles just four hours ago that he'd be waiting to board a flight to Athens with a woman he's just met, he'd've laughed. He would've stopped short of calling you a liar because he's nice like that, but he would've laughed.

It's just as well no one told him that, then. Because he'd now have to eat his words.

\----

“Passport, wallet, phone, SUNGLASSES and anything it doesn't take you longer than five minutes to pack. Get them, now. What's your address? I'm sending a car.”

Charles does as he's told. It's not like Emma's the only strong woman in his life. Hell, at this point, he's pretty sure he'd stick his head in an oven if she told him it'd get him to Erik.

He throws clean underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans, an old blue Oxford hoodie laying strewn across his floor and his tortoise-shell Ray Bans into a holdall along with the wash-bag he always keeps packed _just in case_. Raven always teases him about being so organised but he'll make her eat her words when she hears how useful it's proven. It'll be nice to be right about something.

Charles figures they're flying somewhere, the passport being the dead give away. Even if they're only heading over to France, Emma doesn't seem like the type to take the train.

He uses his one spare minute to pull on a jacket, check his windows are closed and his doors locked and, trusting Emma's time limit to not be an idle threat, installs himself at his front gate, luggage at his feet, to anticipate a car.

To say he's eager would be an understatement. And nervous. Eager and nervous. What _is_ he doing?!

When a car appears 30 seconds later Charles is impressed. And not a little relieved. Waiting in this frame of mind would be hellish. And then some.

Sliding into the Jaguar while the uniformed driver unnecessarily but courteously deposits his luggage in the boot, Charles remembers Raven and Irene. He fires them off a text that he hopes doesn't sound too cryptic. After all, he still doesn't know where he's going or what he's doing, or when - or _if_ \- he'll even meet the woman that does.

\----

An hour later, Charles is being deposited on the damp pavement outside of Terminal 5 and, before his luggage has even been unloaded by the efficient driver, a perfectly manicured hand thrusts a British Airways ticket under his nose.

Looking around to the origin of the proffered ticket, Charles meets the steady gaze of a woman in her thirties, light blonde hair perfectly coiffed and complimented perfected by her white shift dress and jacket. Emma oozes an elegance that matches her name.

If this is indeed Emma. Taking the ticket from her, Charles checks.

“Emma? Emma Frost?”

“The one and only.”

She offers the hand recently relieved of Charles' ticket in greeting.

Shaking it, Charles confirms his identity, if only because his brain is racing so quickly that it can do nothing but basic formalities at this point.

“You're lucky I was in the country, Professor." She smiles. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. Almost, but not quite.

"For this, you get a personal escort.”

“You're coming with me?”

Emma raises a perfectly-arched eyebrow.

“Oh, Sugar, I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

\----

Of course the flight's delayed. Charles' luck would never be any different.

Something about fog and gate slots the check-in desk chap had said. _No idea how long it'll be but best to check in anyway. It could only be an hour._

_Yeah right._

Two hours later, Charles and Emma are sitting in Costa Coffee, each individually enraptured by their own iPhones, occasionally glancing up at the Departure Boards for any updates. So far, no luck. Charles needs a distraction. He's about to crawl out of his skin.

He's been following the links Raven included in her email, ostensibly to look at the flowers Raven said had adorned Erik's outfit on every occasion. Charles finds his gaze instead lingering on the man's face - his jaw, his eyes, the scar above his lip, the differing lengths of his stubble. 

It's probably not a good idea. Charles is very aware that wherever they're heading, whatever they're doing, things might not go his way. For all he knows, Erik thinks he's been snubbed. Re-familiarising himself with Erik's handsome profile may only lead to more heartache in the long run. 

It's not like Charles is thinking clearly, though. He doesn't even know what it is he's doing. He hasn't taken the time to think. 

It's this realisation that has him breathing deeply, trying to rationalise his actions, validate his feelings. 

_Erik sent me flowers. He didn't ignore my emails. He's actually OK with that story from Sebastian Shaw. He doesn't distrust me. I didn't bore him and drive him away._

All the thoughts that had filtered through Charles' head at some point over the past few months run like a slideshow. He wants to dismiss all the fears, but finds a caveat in their place - _but that was then, this is now. Does he still feel the same way?_

Charles figures he's going to find out. When the fog decides to clear, that is.

\----

“Talk about life imitating art, Lehnsherr.” Emma mutters under her breath.

Charles and Emma are sitting on public seats near to the gate that has now been posted for their flight.

Emma has taken to ranting at her phone, having spent a good chunk of the past hour berating the lack of availability of First Class flights - and the accompanying First Class Lounge.

Her words trigger a memory of Charles'. Something he's not long read.

He clicks back onto the links Raven had sent him again. 

Raven, in her infinite wisdom, had thought it would be clever to send Charles - along with the photographs of Erik he'd wiled-away the time with earlier - links to various articles expounding theories about the significance of the flowers in Erik Lehnsherr's buttonhole.

It was an interview question that had Charles' attention now.

_“Have you ever found, particularly in some of your more modern pieces, that life imitates art _?_ ”_

_Lehnsherr looks at me, hard eyes cold. His look is one of contemplation, although it might be about whether he wants to eat you, not consider how - or whether - to answer your question. Eventually he settles on the latter._

_“Had you asked me before I made this film, my answer would have been a resounding 'No'. As it is, this most recent film - the title, really - has been something that I've learned to appreciate the irony of.”_

_As I look at him, presumably a perplexed look on my face, I try to convey without words that I need the German-born actor to expand on his theory. Today is not my lucky day. Lehnsherr's famed reticence to speak about his private life is very much in evidence. His facade remains stony, his eyes unapologetic._

_And that was my first-hand experience of what so many reviewers have said in the past…._

The piece had made Charles smile. This was the Erik Raven had talked of - the public persona that did not sell his life so cheaply to strangers, despite the plethora of co-stars and fellow actors that did exactly that. The interviewer's thinly-veiled attempt to draw something out of Erik was also quite laughable. Charles felt privileged to have even glimpsed the depths that lay beneath. He couldn't help but wonder whether Erik was referring to _him_ \- more specifically - to _their_ situation. 

Emma has obviously seen the article too - may well have been present when it was undertaken. Charles considers asking her about it but, whilst he may be growing to like Emma, he is held back by the fact that they have only just met. Collusion to - ambush? - Erik in Greece notwithstanding.

If he's right about what Erik is referencing, he hopes that things are about to change. After all, even the hardiest of ships have to come into port eventually.

\----

“What do you mean ' _He's not here_ '? According to his schedule he should be right here!”

Emma is not a woman to be trifled with. Especially, it would seem, after an eight hour delay, a bumpy 3 ½ hour flight and a debacle with cars at Athens airport. Thank goodness they hadn't checked-in any luggage. Charles would not have wanted to wait alongside her for that!

It had taken another two hours by car to reach the main set, a journey Charles would rather forget.

Emma was looking rather frazzled around the edges, despite her quick change in the airport Ladies' Room. If Emma looks frazzled, Charles dreads to think what he looks like.

It's not lost on him that he could have had almost a full night's sleep and caught a flight this morning, for all the good Emma's frantic arrangements had actually done them. Then he corrects himself - there was no way on Earth he would have slept, even in his own bed.

Clearly Emma could have done with some, though, if the way she is interrogating the runner she's just ensnared is anything to go by.

“Yes, Ms Frost. I am aware that the schedule says that. Unfortunately, it did have to be revised somewhat owing to weather issues during the shoot. The main cast is actually not shooting far from Athens today, close to the hotel. There is barely anything left to do scene-wise and, as you can see, we are now vacating the main set.”

Emma grits her teeth, clearly trying to regain some of her usual, well, _frostiness_. It can't be easy in the Greek sunshine. It's rapidly approaching midday, after all.

“Right. OK. I guess we'll just head back to Athens then. If you could give the driver the specific address, please”

She turns on her heel and the runner - clearly used to being treated as a dogsbody, Charles thinks with some consternation - offers him a small smile before heading over to the car and leaning through the driver's window.

\----

Emma and Charles spend most of the car journey in silence, just as they had on the way out of Athens. It's not like you see on the big-screen - not for Charles the frantic dash to intercept his love, all of life's misunderstandings and stumbling blocks falling away to clear the path to true love. Oh no, Charles' path seems to be the recipient of a long-overdue landslide.

Emma looks annoyed at their four-hour detour but she has benefitted from some time in the air-conditioned car to regain her composure - both internally and externally.

Clearly not wanting to make the same mistake again, she pulls out her phone. She makes a small noise of frustration when the line evidently rings out.

Charles is taken aback by quite how invested she is in this - whatever _this_ is. But then again, it is her plan.

“He's still not answering his phone. It's such an annoying habit. I'll try someone else. I'm not letting him off the hook that easily. I did not endure this ridiculous farce of a journey just to be scuppered by Erik Lehnsherr's no-shows!”

Charles thinks that's somewhat unfair - it's not like Erik knew to expect them. He thinks better of correcting Emma, though. Something tells him it wouldn't go down too well. She is the man's friend, after all. He tentatively ventures a question instead.

“Does Erik make a habit out of not answering his phone on set then?

“It's a recent development. Obviously he could never answer it mid-scene, but he did tend to keep it nearby. It's not like I constantly need to speak to him, but it was useful on occasion. Then something happened in Canada - he said it was making him agitated, having his phone nearby. So he kept it turned off, for the most part, only checked it intermittently.”

Emma pauses then, as if assessing whether to continue. Narrowing her eyes and fixing Charles with an accusatory stare, she simply says.

“I think it's got more than a little to do with you, actually.”

The way she refocuses on her phone tells Charles that she will not been drawn further. He doesn't press her. There are so many things he wants to ask Erik, he'll just add this one to the growing list.

\----

Not wanting to be scuppered again, Emma pins down an assistant director she just happens to have on speed dial.

 _Yes_ , they're on set. _Yes_ , they should still be there in an hour, if they're lucky. _No_ , he won't tell Erik.

\----

“Come on, quick. Will _nothing go right_ on this journey?! Thank God I told the car to wait.”

Charles shouldn't be surprised any more. He's only just got out of the car when Emma storms back over to it.

“Where are we going?”

“I just spoke to the director. At least _he_ has the decency to give me correct information.”

Oops. Looks like the assistant director is off the Christmas card list. Emma, Charles thinks, is formidable. He'd hate to get on her bad side.

“Erik Magnus Lehnsherr was last spotted with Janos Quested - the guy playing Patroclus-  in the private dining room of a local Taverna getting rather familiar with a bottle of Ouzo. He does like to let his hair down at the end of a shoot. Although, I have to say, he must have got on better than usual with his co-stars if he's actually socialising with them."

"It's 3pm."

"Why on Earth would that matter?"

Charles supposes it doesn't. Not really. He's just a little stunned. Erik. In a bar. With a man.

_It doesn't have to mean anything, Charles...._

_Even if it does, you have NO RIGHT to be unhappy about it._

Erik is socialising with people - male people - he might actually like.

Charles is overcome with uncharacteristic cowardice. He is tempted to call it quits. Maybe he could make his own way back to the airport. Surely no one could blame him?! Suddenly the fear of rejection - always hovering at the back of his mind - is fully front and centre.

It's been a long time since the flowers. Erik could have moved on. Maybe he's misread the signs Raven seems so convinced are about him. Maybe Emma has, too...

Raven could blame him. And Emma.

Charles isn't sure which is scarier - the wrath of these women or being rejected by Erik Lehnsherr.

But Raven is relentless and Emma is formidable and he doesn't want to contemplate what a thwarted Emma is like to behold. Come to think of it, she may even have his passport in her bag.

Resolving to stay and get an answer once and for all, Charles finds himself hoping against hope that sampling the local beverages is all Erik is doing.


	32. In which Charles and Erik are in the same place. Physically at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there!

Erik had bottled it. He'd resisted temptation along with the Ouzo. It was only their penultimate night, after all.

The thing was, he'd evidently given off some kind of impression. After they'd wrapped, Janos had asked whether he wanted to get a farewell drink. He didn't have anything better to do. Maybe today he could implement Operation Get Over Charles.

\----

Erik was glad he'd made the decision to head back to the Taverna. The Ouzo was not to be missed. _When in Rome_ and all that.

To be honest, it was going to take a lot more than he'd drunk so far to get him to do anything other than fleetingly return the gazes Janos was shooting him across the table. At the moment he was thankful another couple of co-stars had agreed to join them.

Not for the first time, Erik lamented how much Charles had affected him. He was not an easy man to forget.

They chat, discuss future projects, stuff they're moving on to, the likely length of the promotional tour for the film, the reactions of fans of the book, of classicists, of homophobes. It's casual stuff. Well, not the stuff about homophobes. But Erik is relaxing. Maybe knowing Charles has made him more open to others. Just a little bit. Maybe.

\----

Charles is anxious. Of all the locations their driver isn't familiar with, it's the particular part of Athens that this particular Taverna happens to be in. He _thinks_.

If he weren't so taut with nerves, Charles would be in a crumpled heap on the floor. Sobbing. His life has descended to bad rom-com depths.

Or he might actually be asleep. He'd calculated it was about 32 hours since he'd last seen a bed and it felt about as long since he'd slept. You couldn't call the snatched half-hours on uncomfortable plastic seats at the airport 'sleep' and the air conditioned flight hadn't exactly been conducive to deep, restful slumber either.

There was no real possibility of sleep now though. Charles has come this far. One way or another, he will know what is happening - _what happened_ \- between him and Erik. If there is something between him and Erik. He tries to look on the bright side. Whatever happens, his life won't be the same as it was before. Heartbreak or something else. Something he has yet to let himself seriously contemplate.

Love. He thinks it just might be. Is it possible?

\----

The car hauls around a corner and glides to a halt. Charles can hear the driver exit the vehicle and stride over dusty, gravelled paving stones until he appears in his eyeline, popping his head around the door of a brightly painted building. There's no discernible sign to confirm the place's identity.

Charles hopes against hope that this time they've found the place. Two false starts that had seen Charles leaping from the car, Emma hot on his heels - the woman was _seriously invested_ in Erik's love-life even if she wouldn't admit to it. Not that Charles would dare ask - only to see the driver sheepishly shake his head before returning to the car and his phone's - evidently _completely_ shite - satnav app.

Seriously, if this isn't the place, Charles isn't above trying his hand at navigating through a city he'd never visited before in this life. Google Maps could surely save the day.

But, God, what's this? The driver is smiling, a cautiously proud curve on his lips. He opens the door on Emma's side of the car. The man is brave. She'd not been above shooting barbed looks at him in his rear-view mirror at their abortive previous stops. And the odd stage-whispered aspersions on the man's skill as a driver.

Charles made a mental note to tip the man handsomely when the chance arose. He'd only been recruited to take them out to the set. Talk about over and above.

Emma is out of the car now, her gaze already focussed on the door that presumably is their destination. Charles slides over the back seat and follows her.

The ballsy, confident, _in control_ Emma has returned and is already through the door and striding over to a man standing behind a bar.

A man who may or may not be the proprietor looks up, startled.

"Erik Lehnsherr? Is he here?"

Charles doesn't know whether Emma is confident or not in the man's ability to speak English, but doesn't have time to wonder before the man is responding while shooting a nervous glance at a door to the rear of the establishment. Aha. A private party.

"No. He's not here."

Only someone who knew he was there. Seriously, _Sheltering Fugitives 101._...

"Now, Sugar, I don't want to get into anything here, but I am not above calling out someone on their utter bullshit. Where is he?"

"I do not know what you are talking about."

Emma has very little patience for this, it would seem. She's not even slept as much as Charles, after all.

"Please do not insult my intelligence."

The man glances at the door again.

Emma's evidently had enough.

"Well you won't mind if I see for myself then."

She's striding towards the door.

"No no no no NO!"


	33. In which Charles and Erik meet. Again.

Charles reluctantly follows Emma as she beckons to him from across the room. He can't quite bring himself to meet the owner's gaze in apology at the man's exclamation. Presumably whoever is in the back room didn't want to be disturbed.

Emma had walked into the next room as soon as she had seen Charles was moving. He can hear a voice - Erik's? - as he makes his way over.

"Emma? What the hell?!"

It's at this point that Charles reaches the door. He steps through, hoping he looks more confident than he feels, chin raised, gaze strong.

He scans the room: a couple of tables are strewn with bottles, glasses and leftover snacks. Large full-length doors are thrown open allowing the early evening sun to creep through. A breeze subtly shifts the blinds. Four people occupy the tables, their small party presumably interrupted by Emma's appearance. It lends the atmosphere something of an expectant tenseness.

Crucially - almost unbelievably - one of those people is Erik.

As Charles' gaze finally settles on the man it's taken what feels like an age to track down - and even longer to truly _find_ \- he takes in the familiar stubble, more golden red now, offset as it is by a deeper tan on Erik's face, the crinkling at the edges of his eyes more pronounced through sun exposure. It does nothing to detract from the thrill that runs through Charles at the sight.

His eyes, though, are wide and imbued with what appears to be shock. It remains to be seen if this is a pleasant surprise.

Then Charles takes in the man beside Erik, loose-limbed in relaxation, reclined in a chair that is subtly directed towards Erik's, as if the man has been deep in conversation with him. Charles realises, with a twist of his gut, that this must be Janos, the costar.

Before he knows what he's saying, he blurts out the only words he can think of.

"Am I too late?"

\----

Erik's ears figuratively 'prick up' as he hears a familiar voice on the other side of the door. Emma.

Ugh. He's definitely going to need more Ouzo for this.

He's reaching for the bottle when she pulls open the door, stepping through with all the confidence of a woman used to getting what she wants.

She usually does, Erik supposes. He's not sure he's in the mood for giving that to her now - whatever it is.

"Emma? What the hell?!" he states as he lowers the bottle in his hand.

She doesn't say anything, just seems to stand there anticipating something. Before Erik really has time to growl at her like he wants to, his relaxing evening embarrassingly interrupted by his agent - he's not currently inclined to call her his _friend_ \- a man steps through the door.

A man who looks suspiciously like - _Charles_.

Erik's mind goes blank, stunned, as he simply stares at the man taking in the contents of the room he's just entered. It doesn't take long, however, for his brain to accelerate from 0-60.

Charles is here?! With _Emma_? What's he doing here? Surely he's not come all this way to confront him? Or has he....finally...?

There's not really time enough to wrestle the burgeoning hope in his chest into tangible thoughts before Charles is speaking.

"Am I too late?"

\----

Charles' eyes are resting on Erik's but they've only just moved there from where they had studied Janos, his position by Erik's side, his body angled towards him. Erik is only too aware of how it looks.

He stands, the wooden chair legs scraping across the flagstone floor, before crossing the distance between him and the man he's longed for. He stops in front of Charles, barely a foot separating them. 

Erik has no idea what's brought Charles here, now, of all times and places. He thinks, however, that he might know what Charles means by those four short words, but it's been too long, there have been too many misunderstandings, too many missed opportunities for Erik to allow even one more.

He fixes his eyes on those of the man in front of him, clear blue like none Erik had ever seen before Charles and is not likely to see again. He doesn't want to. He'd be happy to only gaze into Charles' eyes for the rest of his life.

He utters four short words of his own, testing.

"Too late for me?"

Charles blinks, takes a shaky breath. He looks like he's gearing up to say something.

Erik knows then. He _knows_. There will be time for more questions, explanations later. But not now.

Before he can over-think it, he's leaning down, cupping the side of Charles' face, his chin in his right hand, tilting it back up from where it had lowered at Erik's words. And he's kissing him. Kissing Charles. The man he met late one night in an Oxford restaurant, a man friendly enough to extend an invitation to a stranger, a man who'd ended up capturing Erik's heart without even realising it. A man Erik had thought no longer wanted him. But he's here. He's here now. And Erik's is kissing him.

And, Erik thinks rather wondrously, Charles is kissing him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will follow a bit later. I want to make sure I wrap everything up.
> 
> I've updated the tags / rating as the more this has evolved the more it's become something different.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	34. In which Charles and Erik live happily ever after

They'd had their first real fight the night Erik won his first - and only - acting Oscar.

Their relationship was still relatively new and Charles had been left reeling when Erik had used his acceptance speech to retire from acting with immediate effect.

\----

They'd had small fights - playful bickering, really, when they'd worked through the seemingly endless list of questions they had for one another during the two glorious weeks they'd spent together after Charles' Athens manhunt.

Charles had teased Erik for his endearing lack of confidence in signing a simple card when sending Charles flowers after Erik had grumbled about Charles' lack of familiarity with both technology and popular culture. As if he was actually much better.

Charles had responded that popular culture embellished the truth and invaded privacy and was the _lowest common denominator Erik,_ before admitting that he had been somewhat convinced of Erik and Remy being a thing and was too jealous to risk any further heartache by reading the paper or watching the TV. Even the radio interview had been a fluke. And that hadn't ended well either.

This had prompted Erik to defensively assert that Charles had dated Scott whilst Erik was bemoaning his absence which _then_ prompted Charles to absent-mindedly comment on the thing that had been nagging at him since he'd entered the back dining room of the Greek taverna.

"Well you and Janos looked rather cosy, I must say!"

Erik had stared at Charles then, face unreadable. His brow had furrowed and Charles had swallowed as he had belatedly realised that he may have hit a nerve.

_Shit shit shit. Please don't let me have fucked this up before it's even begun...._

Then Erik had laughed. Charles hadn't known whether to join him or burst into tears of relief.

"Oh Charles. How can I explain this?! Some twisted part of my brain had decided that the only logical way to get over you was to sleep with someone else. He was about as different from you as chalk is from cheese. I was just constantly thinking of you and was trying to find some way to stop!"

Charles was, once again, a guppy fish. He did not know how to respond to that. He'd felt something, hot and visceral, flood his veins, but he didn't know how to convey the depth of emotion he felt. A tumultuous mix of passionate feelings, too interwoven to be distinct.

"I don't want you to stop!"

Charles sounded almost panicky, the fear he'd felt but hadn't allowed to overspill as he'd raced around Athens suddenly coming back to him. Had he been thinking straighter, he would have laughed at his frantic actions after such a length of time had passed, but he wasn't right then. Could he feel relief? Or had Erik started something he couldn't stop?

Fortunately, Erik continued.

"This whole debacle went on for so long that I had really started to lose hope. No, not just started, I had, really. You were nothing more that a dream to me. A missed opportunity, one I would always regret. Too many things went wrong for me to think they were all just coincidence. I mean, your sister's accident, the flowers, me thinking you'd moved on when every subtle hint I dropped fell on deaf ears. I kind of thought it was a sign we weren't meant to be, that we were too different, ours lives too distinct to coincide. I'd found myself changing, being better, putting myself out there because of the way I felt about you, but it seemed like it didn't make any difference; I worried I'd made a massive mistake in doing so. To be honest, I'm still worried."

Charles had burst into tears then. Hot, salty tears of both joy and relief. And love. So much love. He'd told Erik then, the heat of the moment overriding any reservations he had. Wanting to reassure the man he loved that he had no reason to worry. That Charles was his.

Just three words, but three words he'd so often wondered whether he'd have the good fortune to truly mean. And oh how he had meant them.

\----

Five years had passed since then and almost as many since the Oscar speech. Erik's spontaneously romantic - well, _loving_ \- gestures had become something of a feature, erratic as they were, in their lives.

Charles had been shocked initially - hence their argument.

He had railed at Erik's hot-headedness in throwing away his career, his selfishness for not consulting Charles, his arrogance in expecting Charles to be happy that such a talented man could dispose of such promise with seemingly so little thought.

Erik had sat there patiently in the study of the Brownstone they'd bought together, legs crossed in the high wing-backed chair that sat in front of their fireplace. He'd listened to all Charles had to say, ranting and pacing as he tore at his hair until he'd exhausted his arguments.

"I'm going to direct, Charles. Yes, I'll still need to travel, but it'll be more on my terms. I can choose what and when and where - more than as an actor as that stuff is already sorted by the time I sign on. I want to be where you are, Charles. And most of the time that's in Oxford, so I want to be there. I don't want to work constantly. I want to be by your side. Plus, Emma has already threatened to find someone to option the story of our courtship, so to speak, so I figured I might as well get first dibs on that!"

He'd melted, of course. But not without securing a solemn promise from Erik that he would not make such life-changing decisions without Charles again. Romantic or not, he couldn't use the grand gesture excuse every time.

Charles understood, though - at least he thought he did. Erik's need to make himself plainly, unmistakably understood. The legacy of both his childhood, his lack of real relationships and his anxiety at almost losing Charles manifesting in ways that helped Erik work through his anxieties.

And after the initial shock, Charles was nothing if not a grateful recipient. He did ensure, though, when he was offered a position in New York, at Columbia, that he didn't shock Erik quite so much. There was quite enough spontaneity in their relationship without Charles adding to it.

\----

They'd spent a large proportion of the next few years learning New York together, forming memories, friendships, their own family, really, amongst the skyscrapers and hustle and bustle, retiring to the house they made a home together, playing chess, drinking fine wine and even finer Scotch.

Raven and Irene thought nothing of stopping over in New York rather than Oxford in between adventures and even spoke of settling town there when the time came. Raven announced their pregnancy in typical Raven fashion - loudly and with much ebullience. Balloons, banners and a mountain of cupcakes.

Spontaneity, it seemed, was to be an abiding feature in Charles' life, despite a courtship that was anything but.

\----

So it was fitting, then, in a very meaningful way, that Erik used his acceptance speech for winning his first directing Oscar to propose to Charles.

Charles didn't hesitate for a second before he said yes.


End file.
